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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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TRANSITION 



<2t Hcmembrance of 
EMM^ WHITING. 



HUGH SMITH CARPENTER, 

AUTHOR OF ''HERE AND BEYOND.'" 






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NEW YORK: 
CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY. 

M DCCC LXIII. 



f*~. ZF-/U-3 



CTVvs"- 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 

G. W. CAELETON, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Souther] 

District of New York. 



2 2, To. 2 






B. OBAIGHEAD, 

Printer, Siereoiyper, ami Eleciroiyper, 

(Caiton Emitting, 

81, S3, and «5 Centre Street. 



V 



CONTENTS 



I. 


MEMOIR 


... 5 


n. 


SOLILOQUIES 


. 41 


in. 


GLEAMS OF THOUGHT 


. 67 


TV. 


HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS . 


. . 83 


V. 


FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE 


. 109 


VI. 


STIRS OF POETRY .... 


. 125 


VII. 


LIFE RESUMED • . . . 


. 155 



PREFACE 



This book is not written to magnify an individual, 
but to illustrate a principle. Its drift is, to show 
bow a life which is genial and earnest on earth, may 
be sacred and safe for the sky ;— and so, secure the 
resumption of the real charms of earth, in Heaven. 

It is a life, flushing in its brief sojourn, with the 
earnestness of this world, but advancing, with marked 
celerity, towards the next. All the thoughts, here 
arranged, whether expressed in verse, or prose, by 
letter, or by the meditations of solitude, will be found 
to take a hearty, happy, hold of the scenes about us, 
and to put themselves in sympathy with the most 
eager and tender sentiments of the young. 

They will be found to converge, notwithstanding, 
with one consent, towards the loftier love, and the 



iv PREFACE. 

larger knowledge, which awaits the enfranchised, 
educated child of God. 

They are presented for no other purpose, and at no 
greater length, than may subserve this illustration. 

At a time when many religious services are sterile, 
and many human hearts are faithless, this brave 
young spirit may beckon some fellow spirit forward, 
by a fresh demonstration that sensitiveness need not 
be selfish, nor an ideal life unreal ; and above all, 
that to be saintly towards the Heaven, is not to be 
sickly towards the earth. 

This simple sketch of spiritual shapeliness presents 
itself, as a positive argument of an everlasting life. 

Westminster Study, 
Brooklyn, Nov. 1862. 



MEMOIRS 



I. 

MEMOIR. 



We present before the reader, a character, which 
is fresh without being eccentric, and natural without 
being commonplace. 

The likeness of Emma Whiting which faces this 
book, will reveal, on close scrutiny, the disposition 
which these pages attempt to depict. 

Emma was an intense and animated thinker. 
Hers, however, was a placid and domestic girlhood. 
She was not at all selfishly sentimental, yet her 
sentiment was deep and refined. She took larger 
views of life than girls of her years commonly do, 
and occupied her mind with the public interests of 
her country, in the spirit of an ardent and blushing 
patriotism. She was also much enlisted in the pros- 



8 MEMOIR. 

pects of the century at large, as appears from her fre- 
quent reference to questions of history, and to inter- 
national affairs. She was independent in her bene- 
volent sympathies, manifesting an especial leaning of 
heart towards those of whom the world is least hope- 
ful, — actors and actresses, exiles, prisoners, bondmen, 
and even, as we are told, towards the outcasts, who 
are to be the probable subjects of the next philan- 
thropic movement of the age, whose fate, even now, 
many a timid glance ventures to compassionate, and 
many a faltering question would arrest. And yet, 
this clear-eyed and broad-browed young maiden, 
wide awake to all the problems of humanity, and 
the affairs of history, as she was, with her own 
fancy flushing in the softest tints of youthful en- 
thusiasm, could be harmoniously practical and 
simple in her life, devoting an ingenious and facile 
pen, quite patiently, to the education of her little 
brother, and devoting her last days to a watch 
beside his couch, — seizing, with eager eye and ready 
hand, each opportunity to do missionary service — one, 
for example, that presented itself in a brief news- 



MEMOIR. 9 

paper notice of a destitute School at a distance that 
fell under her eye, — toiling patiently, meanwhile, in 
a similar department of labor within her own neigh- 
borhood, sacrificing her life, in fact, to a double zeal, 
as a teacher and as a sister. 

It is in this disclosure of symmetrical character, that 
we think the narrative may do good to many, and 
especially to many of her own sex and age, at a 
period, when the relations between the real and the 
romantic are so apt to be misplaced by some, and 
ignored by others. 

Emma was the daughter of Charles, and Mary L. 
Whiting, and was born in the city of New York. 
January 17, 1841, vanishing out of our sight, June 19, 
1861. So that she spent just twenty years in this 
world. 

She passed her youth here, remaining until 
turned of twenty, as at some institution of learning, 
whence returning home to Grod, she reached matu- 
rity for Time and for Eternity, at one and the same 
point. 

The household remembrance of a dear one gone 



10 MEMOIR. 

is a Photographic Album, exhibiting the beloved life 
in various postures, at successive periods. 

The first picture of Emma which lives in the 
memory of her friends, is that of a studious, earnest 
child. You see such a child's face now and again, 
which seems to say, that it came into the world on an 
errand, and can remain but a little while. Such was 
her expression. She was quick to learn, being in the 
habit of repeating verses when she was but three 
years old, which she had caught from hearing others 
repeat them. She taught herself to read,, finding 
out some intuitive method, before any attempt had 
been made to teach her to spell. And as soon as 
she could read, she read incessantly. Everything in 
the shape of a book within her reach, she opened, 
manifesting, like all eager child- readers, an avidity 
for story books. 

As she grew older, this craving w T as regulated, 
under the development of a fine habit of discrimina- 
tion. For awhile she went at large in her reading — 
her friends being often amused at her selections — 
finding her once absorbed in such a book as 



MEMOIR. 11 

Moore's Epicurean, and ready to rehearse to them 
her own vivid fancies, as they reproduced the 
splendid scenery of the Orient, and the charms of 
the young priestess, there described. 

This absorbent capacity of her intellect is exhi- 
bited throughout her life. 

Her sedateness of thought was soon marked. 
When quite a little child, writes a friend, she 
brought a flower to be admired, and on some one 
remarking that it was very pretty, though quite com- 
mon, she replied, " we have no right to call a flower 
'common,' it is the work of Grod's hand — and we 
could not make anything half so perfect, and ought 
not to undervalue even the smallest one." One of 
her first school compositions was occupied with a 
theme of her own selection, and that theme — 
" Eternity." When it was read before the teacher, 
the latter pronounced it entirely beyond the abilities 
of such a child, and insisted that she must have 
copied it from some book. But her friends at 
home knew otherwise. Her mother, from that 
day, marked her intellectual development with high 



12 MEMOIR. 

expectations, and always entertained the hope that 
her pen would be employed to the honor of Christ, 
and the welfare of souls. A hope taking on another 
form, but by no means to be disappointed. She 
continued to read largely, and yet so thoroughly 
to make what she read her own, as in no way to 
impair her originality of thought. This habit of 
intense reflection, the perfect harmony between her 
mental and emotional natures, so that she entered 
with her whole soul into the observation, and 
then, in turn, by the power of sympathy, took up 
into fresh form, and evolved in fresh vitality, what- 
ever she gathered in her reading, discloses itself 
in the contents of her journal, which was kept 
sacredly private, evidently intended to be destroyed, 
and only a part of which has been rescued from such 
a fate, but which, unlike many private journals, is 
far less engrossed with the incidents of her own life, 
than with her studious perceptions. Thus, in the 
brief review which these pages furnish, we find, side 
by side with the most delicate self- anal j T sis and spiri- 
tual eagerness, critiques of books, such as the ¥a- 



ME HO IB. 13 

verley Novels, Bancroft's History, and of music such 
as Spohr's Dedication of Sounds. 

She was naturally fond of poetry and romance, as 
her own fragmentary writings show. And yet, she 
was only passing through their flower-paths to a 
higher intellectuality. 

She says on this subject, with candor, — "I de- 
voured Bulwer, Dickens, and a host of other novel- 
ists, but it was a taste, if I may dignify it as such, 
which wore itself out in its own insufficiency. 
Novel reading may be pernicious to a narrow- 
minded, illiberal reader, but to an expanding mind, 
following the dictates of true taste, it is harmless." 

It is this expanding experience, which strikes 
us as the most to be commended to young readers 
of our day, and those lady readers in particular, who 
enter, ambitiously enough, upon the wilds of litera- 
ture, at an epoch when literature spreads itself out, 
a trackless prairie. Indeed, it is chiefly for the 
use of fresh lives like theirs, whose endowments and 
culture would bring them into immediate sympathy 
with Emma, that these memorials are printed. To 



14 MEMOIR. 

prohibit fiction as if it were a sin, would have very 
little weight with this class of thinkers. The possi- 
bility of outgrowing it, and thus becoming, not 
the less, but the more intellectual, not the less, but 
the more, nobly imaginative, in the realms of history, 
by the genius of a genuine spirituality — may have 
suggested itself, only to be discredited.. The life 
before us realizes this possibility. It was without nar- 
rowness or bigotry, that she used afterwards to say — 
glancing over the new novel, " My time is too precious 
for it now," whereas her letters abound with descrip- 
tions, which show that it would not have been difficult 
for her to write romances, as well as to read them. 

What the secret of this outgrowth was, we purpose 
to let the reader trace in some of these footprints 
which she left, while stepping from the lower to the 
higher ranges of thought. Footprints, visible only 
now and then, here and there, of course, as of an 
agile and delicate form springing up a hillside ; not 
thinking to mark her way, but to make her way ; 
yet visible enough, as an ascent towards Heaven and 
an approach to God. 



MEMOIR. 15 

There used to sit before the writer, in the Lord's 
house, the motionless form and demure face of this 
young student ; noticed at the time, mainly for a 
certain especial frankness of attention, and impartial 
fluctuation of expression. It did not matter, whether 
it were among a Sabbath audience, or amid a very 
little company, at a weekly meeting on a stormy 
night. There she sat, in the perfect significance of 
the phrase, "sitting still." 

She impressed one with that absolute hush of 
spirit which serves to tranquillize his own. You 
would scarcely have supposed that under the quiet, 
marble brow, such vivacious fancy sparkled. 

It was in this church that Emma became an unaf- 
fected Christian ; a student still, but a student who 
has found what many students never find ; a teacher, 
a Professor of the Infinite ; a student sitting at the 
feet of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and calling no 
man Rabbi, but saying to him, evermore, as Mary 
said, when she recognised his risen glory, " Rabboni !" 
As the evangelical narrative expresses it in another 
example, she was sitting at the feet of Jesus in her 



16 MEMOIR. 

" right mind. 1 ' Our sketch is that of a right mind, a 
mind sanctified and saved. In her record, she regis- 
ters it with the utmost simplicity in these words, — 
" God met meP 

We believe in gradual, as well as in sudden, con- 
versions. We believe, further, that there are con- 
versions which blend both stages of process. Like 
some quiet dawn, gently enkindling the sky, but now 
and again sending up its rays in higher reach and 
more resplendent rapture, so the glow of Divine 
glory in the soul slowly flushes the scene for a time, 
and then, all at once, floods on the vision. Emma's 
spiritual outgrowth became, in the grace of God, a 
spiritual outburst. The break of day became the 
sunrise. She had been conscientious from childhood, 
in that limited range of conscience which is recog- 
nised by the world. 

At home, in school, at sport, in fellowship, and 
friendship, she won respect and love, by a meek 
frankness and such a placid sedateness, as is opposed 
to sullen n ess on one side, and frivolous effervescence 
on the other. She belonged to the class of pupils 



MEMOIR. 17 

whom teachers choose for friends. No one could 
induce her to swerve from known truth or recognised 
right, and in all doubtful questions she delayed to 
act until she was sure of the right, or could obtain 
the judgment of her superiors in age or attainments. 
In so far she was what would be called a very con- 
scientious girl. But, conscience took a wider range 
of recognition. Conscience looked above home, 
school, and social limitation, and beheld the throne 
of Heaven. It became " a conscience towards God." 
This is what we mean by an " awakening of soul," 
or " a conviction of sin," as it is technically phrased 
by theologians, or as Christ himself, much more tho- 
roughly names it, a " conviction of sin, of righteous- 
ness, and of judgment .to come." She had not 
cherished such a conscience as that before. 

Through the whole year preceding her acceptance 
of the Grospel, there was manifest to her friends, a 
strife of spirit, quiet and reticent as she usually was. 
She does not describe it at the time, but refers to it 
afterwards, and often, as the crisis of her existence. 

" She was sitting in her usual seat at "Westminster 



18 MEMOIR. 

Church," says her sister, and thus describes her emo- 
tions at the time. " I never felt so utterly miserable. 
At the close of the sermon there was read that beau- 
tiful hymn — 

' Child of sin and sorrow 
Filled with dismay.' 

The words ' filled with dismay ' so accorded with 
my own convictions, that it seemed as though a voice 
supernatural were speaking to me." But the simple 
word " would," in the second stanza — " Would bring 
thee nigh "-—brought before her mind by delicate asso- 
ciation, this utterance, "How often would I have 
gathered," She recognised the supernatural tone, as 
the accent of the Lord Jesus Christ. She reflected, 
that with treachery, selfwill, and stubbornness, in the 
midst of what had been esteemed a conscientious 
life, she had spurned her God in Christ, her God 
revealed, her God the Saviour. This one word — 
"would" — proved a Gospel to her, a whole system 
of theology, the evangelical talisman, the keynote 
from which she could sing the song of redemption. 



MEMOIR. 19 

It was not to he wondered at, that she was ever after- 
wards very sensitive to the hymns, at the "West- 
minster service, and elsewhere ; since on the eddying 
ripples of sacred song had floated to her the first tes- 
timony from Heaven. She heard God ? s truth set to 
music. Poetess as she was by her birthright, it 
pleased the Divine Spirit to speak to her, as often he 
speaks, in the numbers of poetry. 

She remarked to her sister one day, " They sang 
such a beautiful hymn last Sunday, I learned it while 
they ivere singing ;" and then repeated, word for word, 
with deep feeling, the hymn beginning 

11 Oh, eyes that are weary and hearts that are sore, 
Look oil unto Jesus, and sorrow no more." 

And now, at length, she bowed to Him, she obeyed, 
and believed, and rejoiced. She took him at his word, 
and became conscientious, as a truthful, loyal, lov- 
ing Christian. 

Her sister found her standing at an upper window 
at home, looking out, off, afar, into the sunset, very 
silent, but very earnest. It was the hush of "rest 



20 MEMOIR 

found for the soul." It was the radiance of Christ's 
promise, made good, beaming on her brow, and light- 
ing up those eyes of clay like diamonds of precious 
and unspeakable hope. 

Turning at her sister's footfall, she told her, that 
she " had found Jesus, which is, being interpreted," 
as her soul could now interpret, " the Christ." 

Once again they watched her standing in that sweet 
and sublime revery, and her exclamation was, " But 
for the veil of the flesh, we might see beyond." A 
very gauz}^ veil it was, to her, henceforth. She put 
it presently aside. She lifted it, and laid it back, to 
look, eye to eye, upon the realm of spirits and the 
glory of God. 

From the hour of this regeneration, Emma devoted 
herself to practical usefulness. In lowliness and sim- 
plicity, but with much directness and courage, she set 
about serving the Saviour whom she had found. Her 
friends had not been aware, until after her departure, 
how extensive a circle of personal acquaintance she 
had traversed, with the glances and the tones of her 
Christian eagerness, seeking to win it to Christ. In 



MEMOIR. 21 

one instance particularly, among the latest scenes in 
her life, they observed her very much engaged with 
one of her companions, and heard her speak with un- 
usual fondness and cheerfulness of their interviews ; 
but they did not know until subsequently, that she 
had been beseeching her to seek the unfading 
life. 

Eeturning from an afternoon walk, and being asked 

where she had been, she replied, "to call on ." 

A few days afterwards, the same question met the 
same answer, and that was all she said. But, when 
she lay dying, the young lady whom she had named, 
who had not been a Christian, came to the house, and 
charged them, amid her tears, to tell Emma, at the 
first moment when her consciousness should return, 
that she was not so indifferent to religion as she had 
tried to appear while she had b^en conversing with 
her. Mortal lips never had the opportunity to tell 
her so. Some angel must have mentioned it to her 
soon afterwards ; for we know that there is joy in the 
presence of the angels of God over one sinner that 
repenteth ; and we know, of such as she was, that 



22 MEMOIR. 

when they rest from their labors, their works do fol- 
low them. This young friend lingered long in the 
parting look upon Emma's countenance, which loving 
eyes were taking at the last, as if she fain would tell 
her, then and there. But it needed not. 

Another friend, who soon became a communicant 
in the Episcopal church, says that Emma never met 
her, during the last few months of her life, without 
inquiring "any good news for me?" which was a sweet 
and delicate expression of her interest, so intense, in 
her friend's conversion, with reference to a previous 
conversation on the subject. 

In instances where she was checked, or bidden to 
silence upon that theme, she bided her time consider- 
ately and with great gentleness. But her magnetic 
influence was marked upon those who associated with 
her, quiet and undemonstrative as her social manner 
appeared to be. As an instance of this may be men- 
tioned the case of Mrs. P , a foreign lady, 

who was at the head of a gymnastic school for 
ladies. Emma was for a long time, a regular atten- 
dant upon these lessons, and there sprang up so vivid 



MEMOIR. 23 

an attachment for her in the heart of this lady, 
that soon after her decease she gave up her school, 
declaring that it was too lonely to carry it on without 
her society. 

In October Emma was baptized, and received 
into the Strong Place Baptist Church. Her mother 
had long been a member of that church, and three 
sisters had recently been gathered into the same 
fold. In regard to this successive introduction of 
them and herself into the household of the living 
God, she remarked — " I think God has some distinct 
purpose in this," and after a moment continued, — 
" Perhaps it is to prepare me for some great affliction ; 
but if my death would only bring in Papa, I would 
gladly die." A strong presentiment that she was 
only to be here a little while, veins her reflections 
henceforth and glows through her life. But there is 
nothing morbid in it, or melancholy, as there was no- 
thing whatever in her full vigor and bright prospects 
to induce such a condition. It veins her Christian 
vitality with a keener zest and a more resolute activity. 
She became a teacher in the mission school, And the 



24 MEMOIR. 

attachment of her class, and the admiration of her fel- 
low-teachers, was very distinctly testified afterwards. 
A gentleman, a fellow-teacher, who had long tried 
to indnce her to take a class, before her profession of 
religion, approached her at the close of the school 
one Sunday and said — " So they have you here at 
last." She fastened her eyes upon him, with a look 
which has left an indelible impression on his memory, 
— and exclaimed, with great feeling — " The ivork is 
vastly different, when the heart is right." That was her 
last visit to the Sunday School. And her work there 
was done. She had also become a Tract Yisitor. 
Writes one, "when we were visiting our Tract dis- 
trict together, I was surprised at the earnestness and 
directness with which she would ask the question, 
'Do you love Jesus?' Instances occurred when we 
would not be invited in, and the door was left ajar, as 
if to forbid our entering; still she scarcely ever de- 
parted without asking that question. In reply to a 
woman who said she was ' as good as her neighbors,' 
the question was asked again, with manifest eagerness, 
* but, my friend,, do you love Jesus V She saw in the 



MEMOIR. 25 

11 Sunday School Times," a little notice of some 
struggling mission school in western wilds, where a 
young lady teacher was doing her best, amid many 
discouragements. 

Such a case might have seemed scarcely within her 
reach, or her province. Why should she take it up, 
when her own heart and hands were full ? But she 
at once opened a correspondence, which resulted in 
relief to the laborer, and great gratification to herself, 
as appears in these fragments from letters. It was at 
home, however, that her assiduity to make others 
happy had always found its present scope. Her pen 
had glided, as carefully over the page of the little 
parlor paper, which she edited, in her turn, for the 
entertainment and profit of the family in the winter 
evenings, as if every article were intended for the cold 
or critical ear of the public. Broad views and deep 
thoughts were lavished at home, and needed no 
higher incentive, no keener sensation than the grati- 
fication of the domestic group. And now, when the 
celestial suffused her life, she was as eager to adorn 
the homestead with true spirituality, as she had been 



26 MEMOIR. 

to grace it with a pure and intelligent taste. She 
was to be the angel of the household, in the highest 
significance. Her younger sister, little Laura, to 
whom she alludes, was first of all given to her prayers. 

Emma was permitted, so to speak, to lift her in 
tender ministrant arms, and carry her to the Saviour's 
feet, a very little while before she herself climbed to 
meet her in the skies. 

Laura's illness was brief and sharp. Emma stood 
by her through it all, remaining at her bedside with 
her mother, when only they two mustered fortitude 
to endure the sight of her sufferings; and when 
neither her own nor any other human love could 
hold her up, would say, " Jesus has you in his arms, 
dear Laura 1 " And the child found it so. She 
turned to her sister as she passed under the shadows, 
and whispered, in her parting breath, "Jesus, dear 
Jesus!" 

Emma would often take Laura alone with her to 
pray for her regeneration. Bat, after her death, she 
said one day, " I feel now that I made a mistake. I 
was praying for the future, but God answered my 



MEMOIR. 27 

prayer at once? How many of our prayers get into 
this error, and while they mean to be earnest, are 
really asking God to postpone what He is preparing to 
give us now — by praying for the future. 

Her younger brother was her next award. She 
watched him throughout a severe attack of the 
measles, with incessant attention, taking the principal 
charge of him. 

To quiet his impatience she used to say, cheerily, 
11 let patience have her perfect work ; " and when 
he would sigh for to-morrow, she would answer, 
M to-morrow is not ours, dear Charlie. God has not 
given it to us yet ; when he does, we can then dis- 
pose of it." A deeper truth was there than stood 
upon the surface. It was her last ministry on earth. 
The morrow came to Charlie, of recovery. She had 
the pleasure of lifting him up to a life of earthly 
hope, and, remembering the promise which he made 
her then, he soon entered into covenant with Christ, 
and became a member of his visible church. But 
the morrow that was to give her glory was right at 
hand. She immediately took her place as the invalid 



28 MEMOIR. 

of the household, under what, at first, seemed to be 
a mild attack of the same disorder. So accustomed 
were the family to her unselfish ways, that it seemed 
very natural when Charlie said, as if she had taken 
his place for illustration, " Emma is now showing me 
how patience can have her perfect work." 

On the first Sabbath of her illness she requested 
her sister to find and read to her a passage from an 
old fashioned little book, "which speaks of patience." 
Not turning to it readily, she called for another sen- 
tence, " which speaks of going home," which was 
soon found and read, her sister sitting out in the hall, 
and reading in a low tone of soothing, so as not to 
disturb her. 

It is somewhat singular that a paragraph descriptive 
of her own case should have been the last page-picture 
she should look for, the last book-voice she should 
listen to, who had been such a lover of books from 
her childhood. No more was read to her on earth, 
except the word of God. 

On high, what do the angels read ? She reads 
among the angels. 



MEMOIR. 29 

On the Saturday before her death, she appeared at 
one time to be rapidly sinking. It was that crisis of 
suspense, which is apt to try the faith even of the 
mature Christian. She could not tell, nor be told, 
whether she were to live or die. Bat the bent of her 
affection was clear. She exclaimed, " Oh, I would like 
to go home to Jesus, but I am perfectly willing to stay, 
if it is God's will." She presently cried out, with 
childlike eagerness of faith, in the very naivete of 
spiritual exuberance, " Oh, how gladly would I go." 
Calling for her father and her brother, she was told 
that they were both out of the house ; " Then," she said, 
" remember, if I cannot speak when they come, tell my 
father to follow Jesus, like a little child, as I have done." 

Soon consciousness became dim, and her mind, 
weary in the struggle of the physical malady, wan- 
dered away from the couch to change the scene, This 
is one of the methods in which " He giveth his 
beloved sleep." She had had forethought even of 
this, and said to her sister beforehand, " Mary, remem- 
ber, if I do not have my senses at the last, I have a 
precious hope in Christ." 



30 MEMOIR. 

For several hours, her thoughts returned to the full 
recognition of those around her. She improved the 
opportunity, quietly, to give away her bible and other 
books, as keepsakes, and finish the last errand of her 
ministry, in which she had said that she would gladly 
die, to " bring in " her dear father. She called him to 
her bedside, and with the most reverent affection 
pressed him to accept Christ, as a little child, and 
meet her on the other side of Jordan. He gave the 
promise. She then said, "This is what I have Jived 
for; my mission is accomplished.' 1 '' Presently, " What 
a precious promise ! Eemember, you have pro- 
mised !" 

She had instructed a young companion, long before, 
that whenever she should die, her Westminster friend 
should be summoned. Accordingly, at daybreak, 
when the sad conviction began to force itself upon the 
hearts of the household, the young lady in question 
came for him, and he returned presently with her. 
But Emma being at the moment in great prostration 
and distress, it was thought best to delay the inter- 
view. So they knelt down in the parlor, such of the 



MEMOIR. 31 

family as could be spared, and he prayed for her 
there. When they told her of this prayer in her be- 
half, thus offered in the lower story of the house, she 
astonished them by replying, "/heard every word 
of it." 

When he called again at evening, she had fallen 
asleep on earth, and awaked in heaven. 

The last posture in which the writer ever saw 
Emma Whiting, was, as she paced at the head of her 
column of Mission scholars, decked with her uniform, 
her " colors" as she called them, on the Sunday School 
anniversary day, filing past the steps where he was 
standing in company with some of his brethren in 
the ministry, as all sang together the refrain, " We 
are marching along." He pointed her out to them, 
but she soon disappeared from sight in the throng. 
He is content with that view as an emblematic atti- 
tude. She has passed on, and out of sight, singing of 
her heavenly march, at the head of a cluster of 
souls, some of whom, at least, will follow her all 
the way, advancing out of sight, with the Sabbatic 
host. 



32 MEMOIR. 

" Then let our songs abound 



And every tear be dry ; 
We're marching through Immanuel's land 
To fairer worlds on high." 

It is to this occasion that she alludes, in the last 
letter she ever wrote, which in fact was addressed to 
a dear friend but five days before her own illness, and 
while she was watching by the bedside of her brother. 

"Yours, received just one week ago, was like a 
drink of cold water to a very tired, thirsty young 
woman. (I am twenty, you know.) What had I 
done to make me so tired? I had been marching 
along, as the little anniversary hymn has it. In fact, 
Nettie, I turned out, for the first time, in the Sunday 
School army, and although these anniversary scenes 
touched some very tender spots in my heart, yet I 
enjoyed them greatly. Do you think it would be 
possible to march in a train of seven hundred chil- 
dren, singing their stirring hymns, and yet not to 
catch their spirit? I do wish you could have seen 
Remsen street on that day. The windows, stoops, 
and sidewalks were rilled with people, while school 



MEMOIR. 33 

after school marched along, sometimes singing, some- 
times with martial music, the boj 7 s enthusiastically 
cheering. Such a crowd of happy, happy little faces. 
The mere sight of them made my heart glad. That 
verse in Revelations continually came into my mind. 
1 And I saw a great multitude that no man could num- 
ber J Somehow, my faith pictures the Sunday School 
army as forming a vast part of that blessed throng ; 
and the same faith will not permit me to believe that 
any of these little hearts that have been blessed with 
faithful Sunday School teaching, will lose the blessings 
of redemption through the blood of Christ. It was 
this glorious thought that made my heart thrill so 
while I stood and watched them. I send you herein 
my ' colors,' for I have enlisted for life, God helping 
me. Pin it up in your room. Link it with your 
remembrances of me. I should like nothing better." 

By her colors, she means the badge she wore, which 
is stamped with the American flag, and inscribed, 
" Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life." 

This last letter is the more significant and touching, 

from the fact that the remainder of it is full of viva- 

2* 



34 MEMOIR, 

cious conference with her friend, and, as we shall see, 
marked by her eagerness of anxious patriotism, such 
as elevates all her letters. So that there was nothing 
morbid or depressed in its tone ; and yet there she w T as, 
almost within sight and hearing of the great multitude 
whom no man can number. Was it not an angel that 
bade the verse continually come into her mind? It 
might have been the flitting ministry of little Laura, 
whom she was so soon to greet in Heaven. It was, 
at all events, some message from her Saviour's pre- 
sence, whispering, " Come up hither." 

Emma left no record of herself intentionally, with 
any idea of its surviving her. What we have, we 
have rescued, picking it up in the pathway. They 
found, in the pocket of the last dress she wore before 
she was clothed "upon with life, a few slips of piper, 
on which were hastily written, in pencil, these sweet 
and secret suggestions from the word of God. 

"Strengthened with all might, according to his 
glorious power, unto all patience and long suffering, 
with joyfulness." "To him that overcometh I wil] 
give to sit with me, on my throne." 



MEMOIR. 35 

This word of present sustenance, and this word of 
future promise, had been her last refreshment — and 
then this conclusion of practical resolve. "Do every 
thing, as far as possible, for the glory of Christ's name, 
the entire good of others — forgetting" — There she 
ceased. — 

She meant in all probability to say " forgetting 
self." 

But she interrupted the written order, to go forward 
and obey it, and so she entered into rest. She has 
overcome, and sits with him on his throne. 

The following extracts are taken from letters 
received by her mother, one from the missionary at 
the West, whose work she had aided, the other from 
a young lady with whom she had been intimate : — 

" Emma was a young but devoted disciple of the 
Saviour. Every hour told of benevolent plans and 
their accomplishment. I valued her acquaintance — 
her letters breathed a spirit so pure and gentle, so 
sweet and heavenly — and my esteem for her as a 
Christian was increased by a personal interview at 
your house last Spring. She expressed much satis- 
faction in meeting her correspondent, but was just 



36 MEMOIR. 

ready to attend a prayer-meeting in the neighbor- 
hood, and I saw her heart teas there. She seemed 
deeply anxious for several young friends, and spoke 
with affecting tenderness of her dear father. I trust 
her prayers in his behalf were answered before she 
left the scenes of earth. She also spoke with great 
interest of dear ones gone to their heavenly home, 
whither she was so soon to join them. She was 
already one in heart with the redeemed before the 
throne. Oh, may the mantle of her piety fall upon 
all her fellow-laborers in the school and in every 
other department of Christian enterprise." 

In a letter of more recent date the same writer 
thus describes the result of Emma's attempt to do 
good : — 

"I will endeavor to erect for your lamented 
daughter a monument more enduring than marble 
or brass. 

" The school henceforth is to be called ' The 
Whiting Mission? and I shall be happy from time 
to time to give you an account of its progress." 

The young lady writes this testimony : 

" I think that Emma, before she became a follower 
of Christ, bad marked out for her future pathway a 
career in literary life, and if she had pursued it with 



MEMOIR. 37 

her pure mind and literary taste, I doubt not it would 
have been a successful one. 

" But she once remarked to me, ' I have higher 
work to do now.' Once she had freely opened her 
mind to me on the subject, and uttered the hope 
of one day writing 'something steady, true, and 
telling, that might do good in the world.' If she 
had been spared, sanctified literature would have 
been delightful employment for her. I never knew 
a young Christian with stronger assurance of faith 
in Christ." 

" Whatever else might trouble her, no doubt of her 
acceptance for Christ's sake, ever rested on her mind. 
His finished work of salvation was an anchor to her 
soul. His wondrous love to sinners was the ground 
of her rejoicing. I had many very pleasant conver- 
sations with Emma on these subjects. Most vividly 
I recall to mind one afternoon when she called on me, 
when she was out collecting for a missionary cause in 
the west. It was the first effort of the kind she had 
made — she expressed her diffidence and shrinking 
from the personal application, but immediately added, 
'anything for Jesus, not self, but His cause.' She 
delighted in her duties in the Sabbath School ; having 
won the affections of her scholars, she earnestly pur- 
sued the advantage gained, and followed them with 
faithful earnest counsel and admonition for their 
spiritual welfare. One Sunday, on our way from 
church, I saw a troubled look on her expressive face. 



38 MEMOIR. 

I inquired what disturbed her. She answered ' Oh, 
for an anchor to keep all steady. 1 I replied, Christ is 
a firm anchor. 'Oh, yes,' she added, 'that is not 
my trouble. I am unsteady in my walk, not in my 
hope. It is up, and down ; Christ is sure, but I am so 
unable to walk closely with Him — I approach near to 
Him but I am so carried away again,' — She so longed 
to live ever near the Saviour and to follow so closely 
in His example. 

"The last conversation I ever held with her mani- 
fested her faith and love to Christ. She expressed 
the strongest confidence in His wisdom and undying 
love, and the last sentence she spoke to me was in 
answer to my hope that she" held sweet communion 
with the Saviour on her bed of sickness. ' Oh, yes,' 
she replied, 'sweet; oh, yes, such delightful commun- 
ings. None can tell. Christ is near.' — When next 
I met her, her tongue could no longer express the 
hopes of her heart, but my faith can contemplate her 
union with the Triune God where she is now adoring 
more fully the wonderful love of God in the salvation 
of man, and her mind can now fully expand and en- 
joy the fruition of the hopes of Heaven which she 
delighted to dwell upon when on earth." 

Many other testimonies have been given of her 
usefulness and of the remembrance in which she is 
held. The Sabbath school in which she labored, 



MEMOIR. 39 

passed a series of resolutions expressive of fervent 
and appreciative attachment. Her minister, the 
Reverend Dr. Taylor, has forwarded to us an 
emphatic and expressive tribute to her worth, which 
arrives while these pages are already in press. 

The last rites which earthly love could render were 
melodious with the joy in tribulation. Her pastor, 
of Brooklyn, her former pastor, of New York, 
and another, stood together in the pulpit to bid 
her ashes to repose, and bid the living follow 
in her steps, while the Sabbath School class 
pressed among the group of mourners, as if to re- 
mind them that " her works do follow her," and the 
choir sang her favorite hymn, the appositeness of 
which, to her historic studies, and love of the world's 
cause, was now enhanced by the charm of an appro- 
priate triumph over the wreck of earthly hopes. It 
was as if she sang a solo, in the chorus overhead. — 

" In the cross of Christ I glory 
Towering o'er the wrecks of Time, 
All the light of sacred story 
G-athers o'er its head sublime. ' 



40 MEMOIR. 

In speaking once to a friend, she had said, " Death 
is not dreadful to me, and I would wish my friends to 
feel cheerful, not sad. When I am buried, I would 
like flowers and music, for it would be rather a time 
for rejoicing than sadness." 

It was a time for both, in their utmost measure. 
The more we had to rejoice in, the sadder were we at 
its flight. But the sadder were we at the parting, 
the more reason we had to rejoice for the meet- 
ing. 

One clay, in conversation she had said, " Heaven is 
more attractive to me, when I think of the boundless 
knowledge we shall have there." Then shall we 
know if we follow on to know the Lord — Whose 
going forth, is as the morning. Such was her 
transition. 



II. 



SOLILOGtUIES 



n. 

SOLILOQUIES 



Journals are usually repetitious. In ordinary- 
lives, void of adventure, the record oscillates be- 
tween certain points of experience, and travels over 
the same surface, back and forth. 

Hence, over and above its command of the sym- 
pathies of friendship, it soon becomes prolix, and is 
of use, mainly, in peculiar moods of mind, when we 
like to reassure ourselves that others feel as we do, 
and express their emotions, as we fail to express ours. 
The fragments here detailed to exhibit an interior 
life, tell their story, once for all. 

Existence may be so condensed, and yet so compre- 
hensive. 

How much experience we dilate that might be com- 



4:4 SOLILOQUIES. 

pressed. In these extracts, a spirit steps forth into 
full consciousness, and takes one tender and enthusi- 
astic look over the ways and the works of Grod, — a 
world-wide and wondering look, — determined to see 
for itself, with its own glance, to enjoy and weep, in 
brief and precious individuality, and then moves 
quietly aside. It is as when you come forth from a 
crowded room, to stand in the porch, on a summer 
night, and let your eyesight traverse landscape and 
firmament in one sweep, amid ineffable thoughts ; 
observing the hill-top, lifting your gaze to the con- 
stellations, noting no less the little cascade of the 
brook, and the tapering curve of the plant that bends 
at its edge, and then retiring to repose. 

It is enough. The morrow will show }^ou all. Such 
is Emma Whiting's glimpse of this world in its har- 
mony with the next. 



January 2d, Sunday, 1859.— The " little libellus" 
of last year, so full of crude, scribbled thought, shaded 
by gloomy despondency, filled up fast. So it seems. 
I find the task, if such it may be called, too pleasant to 



SOLILOQUIES. 45 

be dropped, and I close the other, only to open this on 
a more extended scale. In fact, it is as much of a 
necessity as a pleasure. I find, as my life grows 
broader, deeper, that there must be an outlet, or there 
would be an overflow. Self-communion is as neces- 
sary as self-improvement, or 'any other duty which we 
owe to self. 

Looking back over the broad sea of my life, it 
seems as if the waves of time had borne me far, far, 
from where, at this time last year I floated, in uncer- 
tain dismay, dreading the clinging hands of the past, 
and shrinking from the touch of the future, half 
woman, half child. Now the waves bear me nearer 
the shore, — nearer the shore of my hope and longing, 
— the shore of perfect rest, — almost clasped. Oh, God f 
a dark thought comes. What if it should only be a 
mirage — a deceit — an illusion. What if it should only 
be a false sentiment that makes my life so happy — my 
heart so glad ! 

Last year a child only, — this year a woman, in 
thought and feeling, in head and heart, I feel a 
broader, deeper consciousness. Life outwardly has 



46 SOLILOQUIES. 

no longer the dreamy indistinctness that it had before. 
There is more reality ; but it is pleasant. Plenty to 
do ; head and hands full ; yet a quiet happiness over- 
shadowing it. making the dark places light, and the 
bright places lighter. I have one prayer — for endur- 
ance, firmness, and self-command. 



Again I had the exquisite pleasure of hearing Fanny 
Kemble, this time distracted by no curiosity. I well 
knew how to give myself to full enjoyment of the 
thing. Gazing intently upon her face, so beautiful 
from its soul-expression, I drank in every word — the 
ringing musical laugh, the gay coquetry of Beatrice ; 
the flouting scorn of Benedict, melting into such ten- 
der love ; the scene in the church, so full of deep pas- 
sion — one moment making you hold your sides, the 
very next second making your eyes swim and your 
heart ache. Oh ! mighty power ! how I envied her ! 



A novel, as agreeable as any which I have lately 
read. The fact is, I tire of that sort of reading as I 
grow older. My taste runs more in historical and 



SOLILOQUIES. 47 

philosophical lines. Nothing is more delightful to me 
than a metaphysical analysis. And yet, three or four 
years ago, I " adored," in true school girl fashion, 
novels. I devoured James, Bulwer, Dickens, and a 
host of other novelists ; but it was a taste, if I may 
dignify it as such, that wore itself out by its own emp- 
tiness and insufficiency. Novel reading may be per- 
nicious to a narrow-minded, illiberal reader ; but to an 
expanding mind, following the dictates of true taste, 
it is harmless. Now, when I take up a novel, it is 
generally because its clamorous popularity presses it 
upon my notice ; and, apart from a genuine thirst for 
knowledge, I confess to a certain pride in keeping up 
with society in general information. But this reason 
did not influence me in regard to this. An ardent 
admiration for the author has always been linked with 
sorrow for the untimely fate of one, whose pen opened 
a short and painful path to his grave, alas! as well as 
his glory. And then their historical value is another 
and weightier consideration. If the hero, moving 
stiffly and stately across the page of history, impress 
us, how much more, when, costumed in the manners 



48 SOLILOQUIES. 

of his time, talking and acting with his fellow man, 
he appears upon the stage of the novel or the drama, 
surrounded by the sceneries of fiction, and panoplied 
'by imaginative art. The picture is then ineffaceable. 
The charm of historical fiction is inexhaustible, and 
although it cannot supersede historical truth, yet they 
strengthen one another; and what the vine is to the 
oak, in its careless rural festooning, that is historical 
romance in its graceful adorning of historical truth. 



He said truly, as he says all things, that " Presby- 
terianism was a good old Loch casket, quaintly and 
curiously carved, strong and lasting, yet holding 
God's truth well." I, who am no sectarian, freely 
acknowledge, that there is no church history so glo- 
rious as theirs. Sternly and steadily, I seem to see 
them, marching along the lines of time, girded with 
the covenant, and shielded by their perfect trust in 
God. Through the blazing, crackling fires of perse- 
cution, through the crashing artillery of oppression, 
and the sharp conflict of unholy warfare, marching 
onward, right onward — the glare of intolerant zeal 



SOLILOQUIES. 49 

only serves to light the stern enthusiasm on the 
countenances. There is not a man, woman, or child 
among them, who is not ready to die for their reli- 
gion. Aye, call it if you will fanaticism, scorn it as 
" blue light " — that holy strictness. As for me, I 
never read that history of unequal conflicts, dark 
struggles, horrible torments, fearful deaths of agony 
mingled in such terrible confusion, until the very 
page seems red with their blood, but my heart dares 
not weep. I kiss the book as reverently as the sacred 
relics of martyrs. Again, I see the Puritan scions of 
the same sacred stock, resisting mental, as their ances- 
tors resisted bodily persecutions, fleeing to a foreign 
shore, crowding in that small frail vessel, embarking 
upon an almost unknown voyage, with childlike 
faith and humble, unwavering, trust — trembling 
sparrows, flying from persecution. They did not fall 
from the Father's hand; every hair of their heads 
was numbered. I see them leaping upon an unknown 
shore, as gladly as a child leaps into its Father's 
arms ; consecrating the soil, aye, the very echoes, in 
their first awakening to their Grod, as holding to their 



50 SOLILOQUIES. 

rights as freemen, they spread into a free, noble race. 
Tell me now, was it not rich soil, sprinkled by the 
blood of the Covenanters ? farrowed by oppression, 
and sowed by godliness, from whence this great race 
has sprung. 

" Spohr's Dedication of Sounds" — (a critique by 
the imagination.) There are two schools of criticism, 
are there not? There is the standard conservative 
school, hoary as Oxford, — judging always by art- 
rules and art-precedent, with the most holy strictness ; 
viewing distrustfully, through its keen spectacles, all 
innovations,, and the result is, that it is very biased 
sometimes ; setting its broad conservative shoulders 
against the march of progress (which is a dangerous 
thing to- do r since all true progress lias its marching 
orders from God himself, and it is not in the power of 
conservative art to stop it), — it must either be carried 
along with it, or left befogged and choked in the stir 
and dust behind it. Now, far be it from us to lessen 
the dignity of the standard Art School of criticism— 
we hold it as necessary, for the safety and purity of 



SOLILOQUIES. 51 

art, as a standing army for the protection of national 
prosperity, — and no honest critic will attempt to rob 
it of that honor and veneration which are its due ; 
but when presuming upon its exaltation, it would fain 
be dogmatic, when it would attempt to apply its esta- 
blished modes, as laws, and not as tests of truth — to 
judge by precedent, and not by worth ; — to substi- 
tute imitation for originality, then it is a tyranny ; 
the temple of art is desecrated, its vestal robes defiled, 
and the fillet on its upturned brow is a fetter, and 
not a crown of puritj^. Now, opposed to all this is 
the emotional style of criticism, which is sometimes, 
if not altogether disdainful of rules. 

Bancroft's History — the more I read it the more 
I like it. It has all the purity and dignity befit- 
ting historical style. The writer never forgets that 
he is writing a history ; he never obtrudes him- 
self, or his opinions, or observations upon the reader ; 
he makes no attempt at garnishing or embellishing, 
he merely places the facts before the reader, in a 
pleasant readable style, and leaves him to judge for 



52 SOLILOQUIES. 

himself. His deep study and extensive research has 
enabled him, in a great many places, to employ the 
very words of the actors in the scene, thus giving it 
greater force, and showing forth the act from the 
actor's point of view. His power in analysis, both 
of causes and characters, is masterly. He gives us no 
event without giving all its causes : viewing it from 
every side, describing the state of the country, and 
the opinions of the people at the time in which it 
occurred, fixing it indelibly on the mind. 

Thursday, Jan. 17th. Losing myself in a picture 
to-day, why was it that purpled distance reminded 
me of what the dear old Bible says : " For they 
declare plainly, that they seek a country," or, as 
my friend interprets it, in his prayer, " give us the 
outward look and bearing of God's children." Why 
was it that the continuous perspective should suggest 
that far reach of soul — that boundless out-going of 
faith that is born in the hearts of God's children. 
Often detached thoughts suggested, float through 
one's brain, hinting by their shape and sequence, a 



SOLILOQUIES. 53 

harmony and relation, which the thinker, owing, per- 
haps, to a want of exquisite perception, is unable to 
link together in fitness, while yet he feels that some- 
how they belong together ; if he cannot weave them, 
he can hint them for finer souls to weave. 

So it was with my thoughts and the picture. In the 
country I love wooded solitudes, tremulous with an 
infinitude of life, draping a temple for your thoughts.; 
striving, by continual but noiseless hints, to draw and 
win your heart to your God, by the triple force of His 
might, His grace, and His love ; throwing the timid, 
trustful flowers at your feet, among the sturdy, yield- 
ing grass-blades ; lifting the stout trunk and lofty 
boughs against the sky, to draw your heart upwards 
by his power. 

January 24$. I found myself last evening in one 
of those rare resting-places by the wayside which 
our souls sometimes find in this life. A useful, 
pleasant, encouraging lecture from my friend. A 
talk with God's word, which had all the familiarity 
and ease, "the love and latitude" of a conversational 



54 SOLILOQUIES. 

lesson, and it sent me on my way rejoicing. The 
words of the lesson were these : " And I ask ye for 
what intent have ye sent for me ? " " Why," said 
he, "did Peter care to ask this question? God had 
sent him, unquestionably, and they had received him 
joyfully. His mission was marked out undeniably ; 
why ask this question ? For a complete understand- 
ing — mutual — as people should always have in their 
dealings. Let us learn a lesson, my friends, on prayer. 
Have a complete understanding with your G- d, when 
you enter your closet, — then present your wants in 
the simplest way, in the fewest words, avoiding much 
' vain repetition.' In olden times we used to hear 
much of meditation and prayer ; we hear more of 
prayer now and less of meditation. If there were 
more of that, how much more earnest and direct 
prayer would be. And in our last hours how much 
we shall need direct prayer. God is training our 
prayers for our needs, just as soldiers are taught to 
fire at a mark before the actual day of battle." My 
whole soul went up to God in this one clause: " And 
in that last hour, when all life is a need, oh God 



SOLILOQUIES. 55 

Almighty, whose Almightiness we are then to test, 
when human help is impossible, and even what we 
pray for, then seems an impossibility — life out of 
death — then, Lord help us, make us glad to go." 

I came away strengthened, encouraged, refreshed. 
And oh ! I pray that He will give me grace to draw 
nearer to Him in praj^er, to place my whole life, in 
its smallest details, into His Infinite guidance. Oh 
that I may lean on Him in secret prayer ; already I 
have been permitted to taste some of the sweetness 
of it. May I walk closer and lean more trustingly, 
that my heart may burn within me as I talk with 
Him by the way. 

January 28th. (Written shortly after the death of 
" Little Laura.)" My friend preached a sermon to 
the boys. But my heart was very weary, I did not 
get the comfort I came for — oh, how it ached ! Why 
it was that our recent sorrow should add itself to my 
weight, I cannot tell, but a slight reference upset me, 
and, during the prayer, I almost lost my control ; my 
eyes ached with tears that would not be controlled. 



56 SOLILOQUIES. 

I sang " Shining Shore " most vigorously, swallowing 
my tears, for it would not do for me to stand still and 
listen to that. But, once outside of the church door, 
the rebellious tears had their sway ; for a little way 
I could neither see nor hear. Life and self seemed 
worthless. Crushed under the cold moonlight, I 
seemed to have no place, no work; I envied the 
little pale sleeper under the snow. I longed for her 
rest. Annie was kind, she gave me her arm and 
nothing more. After all, my sorrow was selfish and 
wrong. I was no nearer to God for that passionate 
outbreak. I was not surprised that I could not lead 
in family prayer that night. This morning summed 
up the whole case, and I saw things in a better and 
more Gospel light. I prayed God humbly to keep 
me patient in the way He has marked out for me. 
Ah ! that is it ! I want to shape out my own life — I, 
who have given up all for Christ. Beading to-day, 
God showed me this golden balance to my repining ; 
may his grace seal it on my heart. " To them who 
by patient continuance in well doing seek glory, honor 
and immortality, eternal life." u Patient continu- 



SOLILOQUIES. 57 

anceP'' a world of meaning there, and the promised 
reward — 

" I see, or the glory blinds me, 
Of a soul divinely fair, 
Peace, after great tribulation. 
And victory hung in the air." 

January 31st. My father went with me to church 
to-night, and for the first time I had the pleasure of 
listening, for him, to another scripture talk from my 
friend. He took for discussion the 25th, 26th, and 
27th verses of the 13th chapter of John, and after 
explaining the circumstances and different impres- 
sions of the people, he marked out " how prone men 
were to give any interpretation but the true one to 
God's revelations," dividing them into two classes, 
" those who said it thunders," standing for those who 
seek to explain away God's manifestations by natural 
causes, coincidences. " How many," said he, " how 
many sweet revelations, how many whispers of God, 
in dreams and thoughts, have been lost in ' coinci- 
dences.' " Then the other class, those who said, " it 
is the voice of an angel," they seek to explain God's 



58 SOLILOQUIES. 

revelations by mystic spiritual law. "Now, (rod has 
given to every man a natural constitution, with 
governing laws. In revealing Himself to man He 
will not violate the constitution he has given. He 
will manifest Himself in accordance with its laws. 
I cannot tell you how it is that when you are pur- 
suing one train of thought determinately, another 
will cross it just at that juncture by some law of the 
mind; yet it is precisely of these laws that God takes 
advantage to bring Himself to men. Many a man, 
while walking along the streets, has felt stirs of Hea- 
ven and the whispers of God calling him, coming in 
sudden thoughts, directly opposite to those he was 
most intently pursuing. The mistake and danger is, 
that men lay it to any but the right cause, striving to 
explain it away, and losing the delicate lesson." I 
brought away for myself this suggested resolution : 
that I would walk more watchfully and quietly, 
looking earnestly for God's revelations in my 
daily life, lest in the stir and hurry of so much 
to do I might lose the subtle hints, the sweet 
suggestions, that fall only upon the delicately 



SOLILOQUIES. 59 

trained ear, quick to interpret the cadence of spiri- 
tual life. 

February 2d. To-day I had the exquisite rest of a 
Philharmonic rehearsal. Sitting out of sight of the 
music, lost in a crowd of people, how I enjoyed my- 
self. What a curious medley my musical enjoyment 
consists of. I know nothing of musical science, 
absolutely nothing of concerted music. I don't very 
often know the name and the history of the pieces 
that are being played. My enjoyment seems to con- 
sist of imagination, and a delightful rest from all 
exertion, whether physical or mental, for the time 
being. I could hardly sum up the vague thoughts 
that float through my brain. I do not attempt to 
connect or arrange them. They are little odd imps 
that dance with the music, and take a new shape with 
every change of the theme. They are like the sprites 
that danced out of the tea-kettle spout in the " Crick- 
et on the Hearth •" they play their pranks and shake 
their fists in the face of common sense, reason and 
determined thought. Sometimes, in a dreamy half- 



60 SOLILOQUIES. 

consciousness, I watch the time-stick of the conduc- 
tor, governing the whole force of the Orchestra by 
its imperative beats — swaying the huge army of 
sounds, now quick and nervous, now gentle and sub- 
dued; waving to and fro when the music grows sad 
and earnest — the very poetry of motion. I sit and 
watch until all the music seems to float from that 
single slender baton, as from a magician's wand ; and 
I think how this silent, graceful time-finger, keeps and 
controls all the might and mysterious secret of music. 
I think of all the elements of harmony — the chords, 
the octaves, the thirds, major and minor; the perfect 
fifths, holding the most intimate relation, ready for 
the most exquisite harmony, independent in every 
note, yet threaded imperceptibly on a never to be 
broken chain of accord ; a chaotic mass of sounds, 
one would think, to look at those component parts, 
separately, undistinguishable, even when the figure 
is born, but tamed into the sweetest harmony under 
this potent time-stick. " Order is Heaven's first 
law." Sometimes this suggests to me the beautiful 
influence a well ordered character exerts on surround- 



SOLILOQUIES. 61 

ings, however confused. Time would fail me to tell 
of all the things this slender baton writes for me in 
its tireless vibrations. And when I weary of this, I 
turn to the music and make it sing of life, as it rolls 
up from the Orchestra in wave after wave ; now the 
rippling, laughing song suggests the butterfly dance 
of life which some souls lead, now a sweet little 
melody bursts Out of the theme, like a lover's episode, 
in the prosy din of life. Now the music stirs and 
swells, and whirls, amid striving and fighting in the 
midst of overwhelming temptations; and now the 
theme grows wild in its restlessness, and a few low 
notes of an opposite theme begin to join issue, — low 
and uncertain, but slow and sure as the other grows 
swifter, and then I am fighting between two wrongs, 
and right is coming slowly, steadily to the rescue; 
and I am blinded, deafened, by the roar of the battle, 
yet I am sure of the coming succor, all the surer 
because it is low and determined. And now the two 
approach, and the clash is wild, until the opposing 
theme gives way, swallowed in its own confusion, as 



62 SOLILOQUIES. 

ocean waves dash themselves against a stout opposing 
rock with tremendous roar, only to break and die ; and 
the triumphant theme swells louder and louder, borne 
on the breath of the strain that gave it birth, until it 
bursts into a song of victory ; and then it seems as if 
I had witnessed a soul triumph, and my heart sings 
in unison. Sometimes I am borne upward and 
upward on rolling waves of sound, floating in perfect 
listlessness, midway between heaven and earth in a 
musical rapture, dreaming in a — oh, what a delicious 
unconsciousness — " in the body, or out of it I know 
not which." To any one who has not experienced 
this, such language would seem perfectly ridiculous. 
Sometimes,, if I have a programme, I follow the com- 
poser's thoughts, but I like not the trammelling. I 
generally run off again on my own hook. And 
sometimes the music tugs powerfully at my heart- 
strings, always when it falls into that ever underlying 
minor, it searches out my most secret sorrows and 
makes my poor eyes ache ; it knocks mercilessly at 
the silent griefs and confronts me with their mournful 



SOLILOQUIES. 63 

faces ; bat it soothes, while it saddens, and often when 
it has stirred me by its sobbing, it has soothed me 
by its singing. 

How often has it sung to me this bit of comfort — 

"Mortal they softly say — Peace to thy heart; 
We too, — yes mortal — have been as thou art, 
Hope lifted, doubt depressed, seeing in part, 
Twice troubled, and tempted, sustained as thou art." 

February 6th. Although I felt far from well, yet I 
could not bring myself to miss my accustomed lecture, 
so I smothered my aches, and found myself in my 
accustomed place. My friend took the instance of the 
disciple's instantaneous conversion by the simple 
remark of John — "Behold the Lamb of God" — ; and 
drew from it a lesson for Christians, on the influence 
of single words for Christ. I noted the suddenness of 
this conversion — " They stood, disciples of John, they 
vialked disciples of Christ." — 

February 12th. I was thinking, Sunday evening, 
coming from Church, how sweet these hours had be- 



64 SOLILOQUIES. 

come to me. It seems as if the olden times had re- 
turned, with tenfold power; and — ah, they are all the 
sweeter, because they are purified. I remember, in 
the olden times, how, after the first dream, I paid for 
every intense pleasure, by an intense pain. I could 
not have stayed away from a single sermon ; I could 
not analyse the attraction, but after the fascination, 
came such a weariness, — such a longing — a sadness 
that everything I left behind me was gone for ever. 
Sometimes I have really suffered from these feelings. 
Until my recent new birth, these accumulated influ- 
ences were getting the upper hand. I felt that some- 
thing must be done. I was turning on all sides for 
a way of escape, when, suddenly and unexpectedly, 
God met me. His love was stronger than my sinful 
repugnance, it charmed me to the sweetest yielding 
I ever experienced; and now, — and now, the longing 
is rest, — there is no weariness, no sadness, for every- 
thing I leave behind, I shall meet again, — the spirit of 
it goes with me alway. By the grace of God the 
sinfulness is beginning to be extracted. As he puri- 
fies my heart, my enjoyment grows pure. Every 



SOLILOQUIES. 65 

Sunday is furtherance now; all bodily and soul 
weariness is lost in the sweetest communion, — every 
Sabbath hushes itself to its close, in a quietness that 
prepares me for the coming week — that fits me for the 
battle of duty and care, as the repose of night fits us 
for the cares of day. I thank God for these sweet 
lessons. — I thank Him for effecting this purifying 
change. Oh, for grace to keep watch over sin. 

February 16th. I had the pleasure of a Philharmo- 
nic rehearsal, this morning, but somehow it left me in 
a complaining, restless spirit, that I feel now was very 
sinful. I forgot to " watch and pray," and my beset- 
ting sin overcame me. The daily cares and duties 
wearied me, and made me impatient. I failed in the 
thing of things, viz. to make my religion practical 
Yet / will not give it up — this fight, — this fighting 
against sin — but oh ! if ever I am saved, it must be all 
through the infinite mercy of Christ, and nothing 
else — nothing else. 

February 18th. I thought wTiile bathing my sisters 



66 MEMOIR. 

feet, of the last time I bathed those aching feet that 
are set at rest for ever, — little Laura! — Poor little 
tired feet, so marble in their last stillness ; they tread 
the golden streets now. I thought of that time when 
my feet shall travel all the length of the celestial 
road. Those little feet travelled but a little way, but 
very weary feet they were, when they stretched them- 
selves out to their last rest. Somehow the thought 
of their tireless strength now, puts new strength into 
my own weary members. 

Oh ! how sometimes my heart pants to reach home. 



in. 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT 



ni. 

GLEAMS OF THOUGHT 



Actors. — The actor, we, in our noble self-right- 
eousness, arraign and condemn. God is mercy ; but 
man, upright man, cannot afford to be so lenient. 
Although Heaven decreed — Neither do I condemn 
thee, go and sin no more — man revokes the sentence, 
and condemns the Heaven-acquitted, according to his 
own self-sufficient judgment. This — stand off, I am 
holier than thou. No sentiment works more darkly 
within the human breast, than that which impels us to 
place barriers between ourselves and certain classes of 

our fellow-creatures. Mr. is one of the fruits 

of the recent revival, and, apparently, a sincere Chris- 
tian. He had run the usual course of a professional 
actor, — the alternation of public applause and public 
abuse. Feeling the inadequacy of such a life, he had 



70 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 

renounced it, and taken upon himself a higher and 
holier service, — as a preacher of the gospel. People, 
of course, crowded to hear him preach, — from all mo- 
tives, perhaps, except the right one ; although many 
in the same spirit stayed at home, lest the daintiness 
of their charity should be soiled by coming in contact 
with the quondam actor. However, it is not of this 
that we wish to speak. It is of the barrier between 
actors, and other classes of society. This man forci- 
bly illustrated the case when he told how the kind 
remark of a Christian moved the very depths of his 
soul, as all else had failed to do. Sitting in his study 
one day, he was accosted by two ladies, one of whom 
offered him a tract. " You are mistaken," said he, — 
"I am an actor." He took it for granted that they 
would give him over at that, — but one of them re- 
plied, with accents of surprise — The soul of an actor 
is as sacred to me as any other. " Such a remark," 
said he, " moved me deeply." 

And so this chance pearl, cast by the wayside, re- 
deemed what a million of worlds could not buy — a 
human soul. 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 71 

This little incident tells much. It shows that 
actors, as a class, feel the spell of the dark shadow 
which this great social wall throws over their lives. 
There is a good lesson in this. It is hard enough, in 
this world, to struggle, as we all must, with folly, 
hard, even when kind friends stand by in sympathy 
and encouragement. But it is harder still, to battle 
alone, when charity gathers her white robes more 
closely around her, and passes by on the other side. 

God alone knows the hard-fought fights, and the 
victory never awarded here. Shut out from better 
sympathies, and unsparingly condemned, on the one 
hand, — and tempted by the brilliant lures and deadly 
deceits of a dangerous profession, on the other, — 
what then ? Actors are but men ; can we wonder 
that so many of them fall? 

I am entering into no discussion of the merits of 
the stage, nor am I holding up the theatre as a godly 
or a goodly place. I suggest the error and the evil, 
of debarring actors, by a social ban, from taking their 
places among men, as men. Hon: many souls have 
been stoned to death of their fellows ! Is it right f 



72 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT, 

Andre. — We neared Tarrytown, so fraught with, 
historic interest, as fair in its summer beauty, as when 
the lonely spy (shall I call him so !) wended his way. 

I seemed to see it all, — the stout patriots, the 
frightened soldier, the agony, the horrible fear of 
detection and the inevitable fate of a spy, — the 
bitter pleading that grew more intense the more they 
refused — the resort to bribery, as the last resource of 
desperation. What if these three patriots had 
wavered then! I tried to imagine such a result, as 
we moved slowly by, and as such thoughts passed 
rapidly through my mind, — I discerned the con- 
sequences to a whole country struggling for freedom, 
of one little act of dishonest yielding. [A timely 
lesson for the times. This whole nation suffers more 
this day from such personal temptations and the 
bribery of private lives, than from the marshalled 
armies of rebellion. Ah, the Lord grant us three 
stout and unswerving patriots at every roadside 
turning.] 

France and Liberty. — Liberty does not echo 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 73 

well in the garden of the Tuileries. The aristocratic 
trees are accustomed to wave to u Yive l'Empereur," 
and the sigh for liberty dies away in their branches. 
Count Joannes advertised his Fourth of July oration, 
"On the history and character of Washington, the 
American Revolution and its effects" — Lo and be- 
hold, just before the commencement, the vigilant 
police step in — there is no country like France, for 
a good police — the crowd is dispersed, the oration 
is politely forbidden. 

That was wise advice which Bernadotte gave to 
Louis Philippe, when the allies replaced him on the 
throne of the Bourbons — " Sire, to govern the French 
rightly, we must wear a velvet glove, on a hand 
of iron." 

Napoleon III. follows the advice which poor weak 

Louis could not develop. He knows how to soften 

the grasp of the iron hand, with the velvet glove. 

Meeting three men in the Bois de Boulogne, each 

wearing the St. Helena medal, he gives them one 

hundred francs each. 

We are entertained with the charming spectacle of 
4 



74 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT, 

this sovereign democratic, kneeling in the midst of 
his people, bareheaded, to worship in God's first 
temple. 

These things go far with the French. They 
can afford to dance and sing, while the Emperor 
draws the cords more closely, and smiles sardoni- 
cally at his freer neighbors over the Channel. By 
the way, these hand-shaking sisters, England and 
France, came near being fist-shaking sisters, not 
long ago. Things looked threatening, and Brother 
Jonathan, whose honest nose turned up at the visit 
of the English Queen, to the French King, grinned 
mightily at the prospect of a good fight. But 
England knows well when to make dignified conces- 
sions. And so she spurred on her detectives, and 
hunted up the fugitives, and made lavish professions 
of good will, while France sacrificed Orsini on the 
altar of her vengeance, and the two nations shook 
hands once more. And now Napoleon can make 
a stately bow across the Channel. 

The Broken Cable. — There has been a second 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 75 

trial. Anxious expectation, trembling hope, then a 
grand success, that was itself like the cable which 
quickened it, perfectly electrified. The joyous cele- 
bration sparkled. Bells rang, cannon roared, speeches 
grew hoarse, and fires flashed, in which latter part, 
New York may be justly said to have taken the pre- 
eminence, since when she burned her municipal 
edifice it kindled the largest bonfire in the country. 

For a few weeks, the city was cable-mad. We had 
cable in the dining-room, and the parlor, and the 
nursery, and the pulpit. Cable in the streets, on the 
ferryboats, in the cars, in the stages, in the Exchange, 
and in the counting-rooms. 

We had great speeches on it, great dinners off it, 
great processions after it, both by torchlight and by 
daylight. There seemed to be no end to the good 
things said and done, in the name of cable. 

Amidst this confusion we experienced a quiet satis- 
faction, sitting on the roof of our sanctum, and 
watching the arrival of the Niagara, which was, to 
us, the finest part of the great jubilee. We thought 
of the stories of olden time, stories of Eoman tri- 



76 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 

umph, wlien the victors drove through Rome, amid 
the mighty acclamations of the people, and the way 
was carpeted with flowers, and the streets and win- 
dows were alive with gaiety, as now. 

And yet, the same chariot that carried the victor 
dragged the captive. The same air that was rent 
with glad shouts, quivered with the clanking of 
chains, and bore the sounds before the same God. 

Here was a nobler than Roman triumph. For 
triumphal arch, there stood the everlasting blue of 
Heaven. No prisoners, and no spoils, but the hopes 
of mankind — the outstretched hands of human fel- 
lowship lifted their Amen. 

It was a greater victory, because bloodless. It 
was the triumph of civilization in the war of ages — 
the war of the elements. What the Xerxes of the 
old world had tried to do, the Cyrus of the new 
world, in more modest style, had done. 

But after the great excitement, came the great 
reaction. 

Men had overestimated the work. They had 
confused the terms. It was not a grand discovery. 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 77 

It was a grand application. After all the trouble 
and cost, the cable did not work well. It was not in 
perfect order. The electricity could not pass off 
readily. The cable had parted. The submarine 
telegraph was a failure. 

Well, let us suppose that this cable is a failure. 
What then ? Is not the knowledge that has come 
through it invaluable ? If it transmit no other les- 
son, it has taught us the use of submarine commu- 
nication. 

With the practical knowledge of the subject 
acquired, we are confident that it will not readily be 
given up. It is not a failure. It is the first stepping- 
stone of success. 

Subject and Style. — For a little household 
paper called " The Anomaly" 

" The Anomaly " has no wish to recall grand 
strokes of statesmanship, or far-sighted moves of 
diplomacy ; or northern disputes, or southern bicker- 
ings , or territorial tiltings ; or small, very small, 
Congressional meannesses and briberies. We have 



78 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 

no need to recall the grand schemes and small deeds, 
the great words and little actions, of any Lord of the 
White House. We have no wish to recall the mor- 
tifying picture of foreign aggression, and domestic 
apathy, of foreign insult, and domestic folly. We 
prefer to leave these things to those who can handle 
them more ably. 

We beg leave, therefore, to call the attention of 
our readers to the affairs of the Anomaly itself. 

The nervous haste and partial obscurity, arising 
from want of practice in expression, which charac- 
terized the first number, have disappeared. Smooth- 
ness of expression comes of regularity in writing. 
Brevity and conciseness are always acceptable, if the 
thought be well finished. One may write ten lines 
worth ten chapters. First thoughts, like Spring- 
blossoms, are pretty in their freshness ; but who 
would not prefer the Autumn fruits in their fuller 
ripeness ? 

Go forth then, " Anomaly I " Gather the stray 
thoughts that spring about thee, and weave them into 
a garland of immortelles. And when chance and 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 79 

change shall drive us out upon the world — each one 
to fight the world battle alone — we shall look back 
with grateful hearts upon thee, as one of the charms 
that made home so bright, and heart so happy. 

March. — Dame Nature, like a good housekeeper, 
is puting her domain in order. 

All day long, her tireless messengers, the zephyrs, 
wing their way to wake the flowers. Already the 
crocuses are up in their snow-white dresses, and the 
cowslips in their yellow gowns, while the hyacinths, 
in their royal purple vesture, are expected hourly. 
Tiny grass-blades, less beautiful, because more won- 
derful, bristle like the spears of an elfin army. Pale 
green buds shoot cautiously along the branches of 
the willow, timid vines creep up the crevices of the 
rocks, where the snow has lodged so long, climbing 
higher and higher as the season advances, but 
clinging more closely, the higher they go. Long 
grasses and graceful ferns lodge themselves in gaps 
that have yawned so wide through the storms of 
winter, and make the grim old rock smile again, as 



80 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 

old age smiles, when laughing childhood climbs to its 
lap, and clings about its neck. The little brooks 
that were locked so fast, how they rush and bound in 
their new-found freedom, each one a little passion in 
itself — murmuring to itself, then roaring about some 
obstructing tree-root, or tugging angrily at some 
opposing stone ; whirling and foaming, until it seems 
as if every drop were striving to see which can leap 
first over the stone ledge that turns the brooklet into 
a miniature cataract, and down into the dell, which 
its restless action has scooped for it below. 

Now the sun lengthens his circle in the heavens — 
the sky grows a deeper, softer blue, day by day ; 
sunset no longer wraps itself in those gorgeous 
winter clouds, but veils itself in those indescribably 
soft tints. — pale pink, shaded with purple haze, with 
here and there a rent, through which the sun peeps 
out like a blaze of fire. The birds begin to come 
back, bringing their new music, learned in their 
southern home. They whirl and dart through the 
air, very busy in house-hunting, like mortals. Many 
a squabble there is for the best place, especially in 



GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 81 

the gnarled apple-tree, — where the ragged limbs have 
twisted themselves crosswise, forming a cozy nook, 
that man j a parent bird might envy. 

A Thought of a December Day. — It is Decem- 
ber ; — the month that garlands itself with Christmas 
festivities. Merry hearts are wearing gay wreaths of 
cheerful evergreen and crimson holly, to celebrate 
the holy birthday with pleasant interchange of social 
kindnesses. 

Grod help those who twine the dark cypress in 
their Christmas garlands. Grod help the Christmas 
homes that reckon life by God's subtraction, counting 
—one less this year. 

A few weeks more, and this old year will gather 
up its worn garments, and creep away among the 
shadows of the past, — uncared for, unnoticed. Like 
a folded banner, presently, it will find no more 
followers. 

It would seem, if one may be allowed so quaint a 

stretch of fancy, that we are all clerks in the firm 

4* 



82 GLEAMS OF THOUGHT. 

called Life, that the year is our ledger, and December 
its last page. 

On that page we reckon up all the year's entries ; 
— its losses and successes, — its struggles and failures, 
and sometimes, its victories. We seal it up then, to 
be reopened by one hand alone, the hand of our 
Master — God. We know it to be full of faults, to be 
such an account as we would tremble to place before 
man's tribunal. But, thank God, in his judgment 
justice and mercy are blended, as softly as the tints 
of sunset; and while the one never compromises 
with the other, the other tempers the one — and both 
are balanced to the most exquisite harmony. 



TV. 
HA33JRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 



IT. 

HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 



Emma superintended her brother's studies. She 
had a sister's proper ambition, as well as a sister's 
natural partiality. 

She hit upon a fresh device to enliven his interest 
in letter-writing. 

It was to personate with her pen a young gentle- 
man as a correspondent, writing free and easy letters 
from different points upon his journey ; supposing 
him to go first to "Washington and become a secretary 
of legation. He signs his name, H. White. This 
little bit of ingenious pleasantry, is a touching token 
of the degree to which she could enter into the sym- 
pathies of others, in order to do them good. How 
many elder sisters one sees, who would be apt to hold 



86 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

such minute attention to the culture of a younger 
brother's mind, an unnecessary task, especially when 
he had every advantage of good schools. How 
many more, who would lecture him and exhort him 
freely in the premises, being themselves too much 
occupied with the sentimental sympathies and pro- 
testations that fill the pages of school-girl correspon- 
dence, to take such pains. We notice, further, in 
these epistles of Mr. H. White, an intense power of 
realization. If the reader please to call it a vivid 
fancy, the term may serve, although we may remark, 
that not all vivid fancies practise the requisite accu- 
racy of detail, or the simplicity of vision, which enter 
into realizations. Emma had the appreciative power, 
which made her fancies true to life. 

Her intense patriotism, too, is all the while glow- 
ing at her pen's point. How the country is loved 
like a mother, when the private and everyday letters 
of the young throb thus with her name. It will be 
borne in mind that these bursts of loyalty were fresh, 
when treason itself was as yet young, and almost 
a new name of terror among us, when no human eye 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 87 

could see what was just about to happen. The war 
had not broken out. The statesmanship of the land, 
the conscience of the country, measures a long blood- 
red track, whereon thousands drop by the way, to 
reach the same conclusion, to which this maidenly 
strength of faith took flight intuitively. 



Washington City, Feb. 19. 

My Dear Charlie : — 

I would have written to you before, my dear fel- 
low, if I could have possibly found any time. You 
know that these are stirring times, and especially so 
in this city, which is the heart of the great country. 
A very troubled, palpitating heart it is, just now, — 
may God hush it to quiet. There is so much to hear, 
so much to see, so much to talk about, that it keeps 
a man continually employed. Of course, the all- 
absorbing topic of every conversation, is the distracted 
state of our country. Nobody thinks of talking of 
anything else. On the cars, in the stages, in the bar- 
rooms, on the corners, on the steps of the Capitol, 
aye, even in the Senate Hall, one hears of nothing 



88 HARRY WHITES LETTERS. 

but Union or Disunion, Secession, Nullification, 
Compromise, Coercion, etc., etc., etc. Why, my 
clear Charlie, I could not enumerate them all. You 
will see, everywhere, groups of men, holding one 
another by the button hole, while each man declares 
vehemently his idea of right, which, in his opinion, 
is the only right ; and I heard the little darkies who 
followed the elegant profession of boot-blacking, dis- 
cussing their own chances if Lincoln were safely 
elected. They supposed they would become chief- 
tains, or something very grand, not bootblacks, cer- 
tainly. The counting of the electoral vote was the 
last great affair ; all Washington was on tip-toe with 
expectation. Many days beforehand, every available 
sleeping-place was engaged. The hotels were crowd- 
ed to overflowing. I had happily engaged my room 
some time beforehand. I don't think I could have 
hired a pillow that night. Fortunately, the uncertain 
state of things thinned out the crinoline. There 
were very few ladies present, and our poor legs were 
saved from that terrible rubbing they so often get 
from the close pressure of steel hoops. But I think 



HARRY WHITES LETTERS. 89 

I must explain to you what counting the electoral 

vote is. * * * * * 

•x- ■* * ■* # * 

I would like to hear from you as soon as Saturday. 
Tell me what you think about our poor country. Do 
you think it would be right for the President to send 
ships of war, to force these unruly states back to their 
duty ? I should like to hear your opinion on this 
subject. A full, frank, calm opinion, I want. If 
anything will save our country now, — next to 
prayers, it will be the calm earnest discussions of 
right thinking men. 

While I am writing, the Capitol is splendidly 
illuminated, light blazing from every pane, at the 
cost of one dollar per hour. I wish you were here 
to see it. 

I remain yours most affectionately. 

Harry White. 

Washington City, March 2d, 1861. 

Your letter amused me, but I should have liked 



90 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

more news, my dear fellow. You must know my 
great penchant for news, (ask your sister Annie 
what that means.) 

I must confess, accustomed as I am to startling 
disclosures in these times, I am shocked beyond 
measure at these recent discoveries. 

Ah me, this nation must be more thoroughly hum- 
bled, in the very dust, repenting its sins, before God 
can save us from our national calamities. I wish, 
with you, dear Charlie, that we may have a peace- 
ful conclusion to these difficulties, but I candidly 
think things must come to the worst, unless we put 
our great sins far from us, unless the lesson God 
means, be better learned, — unless the nation humbles 
and purifies itself; — unless this is the case, I fear and 
tremble for our dear country. 

We want sadly a leading man for these trials. By 
a leading man, I mean an honest, humble, — God- 
feeling, Christian, man. I fear, — could Washington 
politicians hear me now, there would be no lack of 
sneers at my odd idea of a hero. Yet only a man 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 91 

who rests on prayer for authority, can unravel these 
tangled mazes. There are many men who are 
endeavoring, and many of them, I believe, are honest 
in their efforts, to bring about a better state of things. 
But the secret of things is that none of them go 
rightly to work. They are applying human wisdom, 
where human wisdom is useless. Some want to 
settle affairs, by adding to the constitution a clause 
signifying that slavery is right. Some want to give 
np all the territories to the clamorous Southrons; 
— that would be like quieting clamorous children 
with molasses candy — it must end in a cry for more. 
Some men, whose interests are their principles, 
whose business suffers just now, are willing to give 
up anything, to resort to any measures, to get back 
their profitable customers who are so easily cheated. 

The peace congress, after long debating, have come 
to no conclusion. Most men seem discouraged by 
these failures, but as I said before, they commence 
wrong, they have not got at the heart of things yet, 
and they never will, until their eyes are opened. 



92 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

You must bear my moralizing, with patience, for it 
is my besetting failing. Please answer me soon. I 
like to read your letters. I think you earnestly 
desire to improve, and, with a little more care, yon 
soon will. " A word to the wise is sufficient." May 
I hint a little more care in orthography and syntax ? 
I must stop now, for it is getting very late. I have 
just time to subscribe myself, 

Your sleepy friend, 

Harry White. 

It is almost an effort to believe, that these earnest 
expressions were penned, not in Washington, but in 
Brooklyn, by a young girl scarcely twenty, who had 
never seen Washington, nor stood within the halls of 
a congress, nor heard the talk of the lobby, but whose 
imagination was on fire with the fate of her country. 
Here was statesmanship inspired in a maiden's breast, 
when statesmanship was elsewhere a raritv. 



HARRY WHITE' 8 LETTERS. 93 

Washington City. 

My dear Charlie : — 

Here comes jour last letter from this renowned 
city, for I hope to be "out on the ocean sailing," 
before this reaches you. My trunks are packed and 
off, and I expect to set sail to-morrow on the Arago, 
for Havre, in France, whence I will write to you 
again. Please direct your answer there. Will you 
not envy me a sailor's life for the next few weeks ? 
I am afraid, however, I shall not make much of a 
seaman, as I have never even seen the ocean. But 
an untried pleasure is all the more enchanting. I 
have determined to keep my ears and eyes open, and 
become an excellent sailor before we reach port. 

Now, I am not going to fill up this letter with 
news. I want very much to talk with you about a 
subject that has wrinkled your face many a time. I 
mean letter- writing. Now, my dear Charlie, I am 
anxious that you should not only learn to write well, 
and with ease, but that you should learn to love it. 
It is possible to love a thing that is very hard to us 
at first, if we only conquer it with a strong will. 



94 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

Kemember, first, that in letter- writing the old proverb 
holds good, "Practice makes perfect." The more 
letters you write — the more persons you correspond 
with — the easier your correspondence will grow, and 
the less time it will take to run off a letter. If you 
write many letters, by and by you can write page 
after page with the greatest rapidity, and without 
being wearisome or weary. I say this to encourage 
you, but, I must tell you plainlj 7 , this desirable result 
is only to be attained by patience and perseverance. 
You must resolve firmly that you will not give up 
to any discouragements, that you will try again and 
again, and that you will spare no pains to perfect 
yourself in spelling and grammar, and, what is next 
to them in importance — ease of expression. Let me 
see if I cannot simplify the matter somewhat to you. 
In the first place, when you sit down to write a letter, 
patiently arrange what you wish to write about, before 
you commence. Take a little slip of paper, and 
write down the heads of your letter, or the different 
subjects you may want to mention, as a minister 
notes down the heads of a sermon. Then, take one 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 95 

at once, and think how you shall best tell it to jour 
correspondent. Don't commence to write, until you 
have thought just how you shall say it. It is a very 
good way, to say aloud the sentence you are going to 
write, because you can more easily detect mistakes in 
grammar, by your ear, which is more quick to dis- 
cern false grammar, than the head, I think. 

Never write a sentence without examining the gram- 
mar, the spelling, the punctuation, and the expression, 
and seeing whether it is the very best way in which 
you can put it. I know this seems very hard and 
troublesome, but this was the rule of one, who stands 
now high among writers. When he commenced to 
write, he could scarcely shape a sentence, but he was 
a man of immense will ; he determined to conquer, 
he adopted this hard rule. That was years ago — to- 
day his books sell everywhere — men are eager to 
read them, his name is great. His sentences are 
almost faultless in their formation. But the principal 
charm of a letter is an easy way of expressing one's 
thoughts. Strive for this. Try to avoid forms that 
are stiff. Write as if you were conversing. Glide 



96 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

from one thing to another, do not jump. It is better 
to say too much about one thing, than to say too little, 
and then take a long stride to another subject. Pick 
up little things around you, and strive to enliven 
your letters with them. But, above all, don't shrink 
from hard work. Nothing is to be attained without 
it. Great battles were never fought, great deeds 
were never accomplished, great men — the greatest 
men — never arrived at distinction without hard labor. 
God intended that it should be so. He intended that 
we should strengthen our mind-muscles, as men 
strengthen their physical bodies, by tough work. 
We grow strong by tugging at obstacles. Kise out 
of yourself, my dear fellow. Why should you not 
conquer, as others have done ? Don't be conquered. 
Spare no pains — shrink from no hard work — to make 
yourself a graceful, easy letter-writer ; it will help 
you in other things. If your expression is easy in 
letter- writing, it will be easy in conversation. You 
will become one of those gentlemen one loves to have 
drop in of an evening for a quiet chat, one of those 
companionable fellows, that you always beg, when 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 97 

they go on a journey — Now, do write to me. And 
their letters are always joyfully received, eagerly 
read, and carefully preserved for another reading. 
In a thousand different ways you will need this use- 
ful acquisition, during your life. Please do not lay 
this letter aside as soon as you have read it ; keep it 
by your side when you answer it. I have spent 
much care in writing it, and I want you to spend 
much time in reading it. I am anxious for your 
improvement. Every year ought to find you with 
something gained. Dear Charlie, fight yourself. 
To all laziness, discouragement, carelessness, say — 
get behind. Put before you your object and work, 
with all the mind that God has given you, until you 
attain it ; — then set it higher yet, and see if you do not 
grow in knowledge. 

Your solicitous friend, 

H. White. 

Ship Arago, April ia. 

Dear Charlie : — 

Out here on the broad ocean, it occurs to me that I 

will drop you a line ; for we may chance to hail a 

5 



98 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

vessel that is homeward bound, and I may have the 
opportunity of sending it. We have thus for had a 
pleasant and prosperous voyage, and I am charmed 
with ocean life. But then I am a first cabin passen- 
ger, accustomed to a well-furnished table, a luxurious 
cabin, pleasant companions, with nothing to do but 
to look about me — of course I ought to like it. I 
wonder how the poor seamen like it, for their lot is a 
hard one, even when they are hardened to it. Some- 
times, at the dead of the night, when I am snoozing 
so comfortably, dreaming of home, " rocked in the 
cradle of the deep," I am awakened by their gruff 
voices — the rapid command, and the brief, sailor-like 
reply. In all weathers I hear their heavy tramp 
overhead. Sometimes, when the wind is blowing 
"pretty stiff," which is what we land lubbers term a 
hurricane, or when it is raining in torrents, and you 
would not put your nose-tip out doors, or sometimes, 
when the waves roll up like mountains, and we go 
down into gulfs that are like yawning mouths, and 
the water laps over us like a great tongue that could 
snap us up in a moment — no matter how the case 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 99 

maj^ be — the sailors are always at their posts. They 
never parley about obedience. To be told to do & 
thing is to do it, instantly. And with hearty unison 
they work, like wheels within wheels, while the 
noble ship glides along so stately. Few people think 
of these lesser labors, and yet not one of them could 
be spared. Walking the deck one splendid moon- 
light night, I thought, O ! if our ship of state could 
be worked thus, there would be no danger of her 
running aground among the deceptive shoals of 
Secession, or falling to pieces on the rocks of Dis- 
union. If every wheel, great or small, in our govern- 
ment were wound up, and set going by true patriotism, 
animated by a common love, and seeking the high- 
est good of the country above all petty interests of 
their own — if all our officers were actuated by this 
implicit spirit of obedience — how safely and prosper- 
ously our noble ship might glide along — the pride of 
our hearts, and the refuge of all the world — the hope 
of the age. For, dear Charlie, we think a fine ship 
is a splendid sight, but I ask you if there ever was a 
nobler sight than that ship that God's own hand 



100 HARRY WHITES LETTERS, 

framed in 1776, and launched among the nations. 
Baptized with the blood of patriots, it received its 
name, " The Union," in the grandest and most solemn 
period of the world's history — "the times that tried 
men's souls." Oh ! when I think of the then and 
now, my heart aches for my dear country. But God 
is our strength and our trust. He will be our Deli- 
verer. But the sailor's earnestness in duty brings to 
me a higher suggestion. If all Christians worked in 
God's great plan with such unison, with such hearty 
obedience, with such common love and interest, how 
God's purposes for this world would be furthered, 
how Christ's kingdom would grow among us, and 
his name be glorified. We, who are Christ's children, 
are "out on the ocean sailing," in the ark of safety; 
if every man did his duty, no matter how small it 
might be, if every one were at his post, earnest for 
the Master, how the ship would glide, making for the 
" shining shore." Dear Charlie, are you strong to do 
your little ? Remember, he who does not help, hin- 
ders. How much I could tell you of an ocean life. 
It is the most varied of lives. I could fill pages of 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 101 

description of the long bright days, when the water 
is like molten gold, and the sky is depth within 
depth ; and of the nights, — the moonlight nights — 
when the great waters are silvered over, and the 
heavens are studded, and the sense of vastness, of 
immensity, is awful. I cannot describe to you my 
sensation when I view this breadth of water. The 
sense of my own insignificance is overpowering. 
God's might makes my inmost heart tremble, yet the 
sweetness of his promise is unaltered, here as else- 
where. And often at night, standing like a mere 
speck on this frail vessel, and looking over the vast 
waters — stretching away, far away, into the darkness 
— when I think of God's immense power and his 
loving care for me, my heart repeats with the pro- 
phet, " God is my salvation, I will trust and not be 
afraid, the Lord Jehovah is my strength and my 
song." It is a grand song to sing, and, dear Charlie, 
it is even grander than the scene. 

Turin, May 1st, 1861. 

My dear Charlie : 

Here I am safe at my journey's end, — snugly 



102 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

ensconced in this ancient city, and here your letter 
followed me, for it reached Havre after I had left, 
and was forwarded at my request. Now, if you will 
take the map, I will tell you something about the 
route I took. — As soon as we could get rid of the 
annoyances of custom-house officers at Havre, we 
took the cars for Paris — stoping at Rouen, for a ten 
o'clock breakfast. I wish I could pause here long 
enough, to tell you something about this very old 
town of Rouen. It is the quaintest, oddest, place in 
ithe world. You probably have never seen such 
queer old houses, black with age — such narrow 
streets, scarcely the width of your shoulders — such 
antediluvian people. While waiting for breakfast, I 
strolled off to the market-place which is linked with 
historical associations. It was in this very market- 
place, where to-day the patient market-women sit 
with their clean white caps and their fresh vegetables, 
that, four hundred and thirty-one years ago, — the 
English burned the brave French maiden Joan of Arc. 
Perhaps you have never heard of her. It is too long 
a story for me to tell you here. You must ask one 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 103 

of your sisters to tell it to you when they have time. 
In the centre of the market-place, is a handsome 
column erected to her memory. Old as is the story 
of her exploits, I could not help feeling a thrill of 
admiration, as I looked upon the statue of the brave 
. devoted maiden — but if I had my fine thoughts upon 
the subject, they were put to flight by a scolding 
market-woman, who was leaning against the iron 
railing that surrounds the column, hissing out her red- 
hot words against a customer who dared to doubt the 
freshness of her vegetables. It was here at Eouen 
also that the renowned William the Conqueror 
(1066) met with his death. After he had conquered 
England he still kept his dominion of Normandy, 
but his nobles whom he left there during his absence 
in England, were very rebellious, and gave him so 
much trouble, that he vowed he would go home and 
lay the whole country in ashes. He kept his vow 
partly — but at Kouen his horse, stumbling in some hot 
ashes, threw him, and he died from the injuries 
received from his fall. You may imagine how much 
I wished to stay and examine this old place so full 



104 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

of interest ; bat breakfast was eaten, and off we must 
start. Well, along the Seine we flew until we reached 
Paris at twelve o'clock. Paris — what can I tell you 
of beautiful, gaj, bewitching, dazzling, crowded Paris 
— well, Charlie, I didn't see much of it, for I didn't 
leave the depot, but what I did see was bewildering — 
I would have given worlds to have stayed, but Mr. 
Marsh was anxious to get on. Perhaps I may be sent 
here for dispatches, and then I shall be able to tell you 
something about Paris — so with a sigh of regret we 
retook the cars. We had some debate here as to 
which road would be the best. You will see by the 
map that there are two roads here, one passing 
through Lyons, and the other through Basle in Swit- 
zerland. The latter is much longer, but far more 
beautiful, but to save time was our chief object, so we 
chose the former. We reached Lyons, where we 
were to stop for the night, late in the evening, (it is 
here that they make the magnificent velvet,) and left 
it early in the morning for Grenoble where we crossed 
the Alps. This part of our journey was the longest 
and most beautiful. We rode on mules the most of 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 105 

the way, — though, sometimes we clambered on foot 
up the steepest places. How I wish you could have 
seen some of this magnificent scenery. Mountains 
rising above mountains, bold and rugged, around us 
— terrible in their frowning majesty, yet vieing with 
the clouds in softness and color, where they melted 
into the distance. About half way up, these moun- 
tains were covered with the softest green verdure, 
while the tops were bleak with dazzling snow. Im- 
agine the contrast. Sometimes our path wound like 
a mere thread along the steep sides of the mountain, 
looking down into ravines, whose depths you could 
not sound, looking up to mountain tops capped with 
clouds. — Sometimes a dull thundering sound in the 
distance would tell of some avalanche which had 
slipped its hold and fallen shuddering down the deep 
abyss. — Here and there were nestled little Alpine 
chalets or cottages, safe from their very humility, amid 
this grandeur, where you could discern the goats like 
white specks dotting the grass, and the crimson 

dresses of the Alpine shepherdesses, and now and 

5* 



106 HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 

then we caught the sound of the merry jodel, or 
peasant song, which our guide would answer, while 
the echoes rung the sweet notes over and over again. 
Looking up into the bright blue sky, un flecked by a 
single cloud, breathing pure sweet mountain air, — 
can you wonder, dear Charlie, that I felt like a child? 
— My heart danced with delight, — all my cares were 
forgotten. My heart went up to God, as it never did 
before. — Never had I felt so completely in His care; — ■ 
if the sublimity of these everlasting hills made me 
tremble, they reminded me also of the unchangeable- 
ness of His everlasting promise. If sometimes the 
grandeur of His works overpowered me, the tender 
clinging Alpine daisj^ at my feet taught me a sweet 
lesson of trust, by reassuring me of His love, while 
the blue sky symbolled peace, that peace that the 
world cannot take away. It was a journey I shall 
never forget. In my next letter, I hope to tell you 
something about Turin, — and the state of things in 
Italy, and something about the startling news you 
wrote to me. — You must excuse mistakes, for I am 



HARRY WHITE'S LETTERS. 107 

writing with one eye upon my watch, — Adieu, my 
dear friend — I shall expect a letter as long as this, 
full of the exciting news. 

Yours, H. White, 

Sec. of Legation. 



Y. 

FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 



Y. 
FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 



We shall make space for a few fragments of other 
letters, which may indicate something of Emma's 
genial disposition, and facile pen. The same 
naturalness and fresh zest, in all, reveal the delicate 
individuality and promise of her life. It is, as we 
have said, a life that one would know again, any- 
where and forever. Earnest without extravagance, 
peculiar without eccentricity, — emphatically clear 
and strong, it betokens thus the renewal of acquaint- 
ance and persuades you of its continuance hereafter, 
like some sweet fragrance, some rare tint of a flower, 
which has once refreshed you, and which you are 
sure you would recognise in the vastest forest or the 
most luxuriant prairie. 



112 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

Schroon Lake, August 12th. 

I wish I could give you some idea of this grand 
wild country, which they call " Horicon," — and my 
many enjoyments here. 

But the river is the place for explorations, so wind- 
ing, with steep banks, and tangled masses of foliage, 
these old trees, obstructing its channel, and those little 
islands that would have served for Calypso herself, — 
and exquisite little bays, just large enough to harbor 
one small boat, make a whole that is perfectly fasci- 
nating. I wish you were here to enjoy some of these 
sunset sails with us. Between the river and the lake 
is a long old bridge which is extremely picturesque. 

It is here, I spend my Sunday evenings. Indeed, 
I attend church here. It is my holy cathedral, which 
men call Nature. 

On some glorious moonlight nights, when the whole 
landscape is flooded with a silvery light, and sub- 
stance and shadow blend so indistinctly, when every- 
thing is still, save the silver-poplar leaves, — they are 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 113 

never at rest — and the low mournful note of the 
whipperwill, which does not break the silence, but 
only makes it more impressive, then it is my Holy of 
Holies, it is my hour of self communion. I sit and 
think, sometimes of past life, — sometimes of our 
pleasant friendship, and always of my present 
ignorance, my shortcomings, and the great gulf 
between my aspirations and my deeds. Yery bitter 
are these self reviews, but I think for the most part 
they are wholesome. 

Living so close to nature, my heart grows wild 
with delight. 

Emma. 

My Dear Father. 
* * # # ■* # # 

What do you think of this wonderful Italian 
Revolution, for such it seems likely to become. 
These great French victories, that of Solferino espe- 
cially, seem to me like magic tales. The Austrian 
soldiers are like children's blocks, set up merely for 
the French to knock down. I am astonished at the 



114 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

stupidity displayed hy the Austrians. Napoleon 
seems to have absorbed all the cunning and diplo- 
macy. Whatever may be our personal dislikes to 
him, he has proved himself a masterly general. This 
sudden armistice was unexpected, but the rumored 
disposal of Italy not at all so. I suppose you have 
read before this, of the state of Mexico, and Pre- 
sident Juarez's sensible manifesto. It is a pity, since 
he shows such a capability and right intention, that 
he has not more force to execute. 

Legislation may be without a flaw, but execution 
of the laws is the soul of government. This abolish- 
ing of convents and monasteries is a bold movement, 
and needs strong support. 

I get but a peep at the news out here, which is very 
tantalizing while they are so important and interest- 
ing. I wish you would please send us the Daily 
Times of Saturday, every week, if convenient. 

Emma. 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 115 

Schroon, August 31st, 1859. 

Dear Sister L. 
* * * •* # # •* 

I wish you would get the Atlantic for September. 
I want to have you read the last chapter of the 
"Minister's Wooing." Not on account of the story, 
but for that faithful description of stern New England 
theology, that soul-harrowing — life-rending but 
equally life-giving religion, of which President 
Edwards was the chief expounder. Also the little 
essay on " Sorrow" in the same number should be 
framed in gold, it is so beautiful. Indeed the whole 
magazine worthily asserts its right to the first place 
among magazine liturature. 

"October to May" I know must be Longfellow's. 
Emerson has a queer piece of mysticism, " The Mys- 
teries of Eleusinia." K. W. Emerson his x mark is 
unmistakably written upon everything he writes. 
There is also something about Ary Sbeffer which 
will interest your artist sympathies, and the Professor 
has a beautiful piece of poetry, though I do not 
think on the whole it is as good as his contributions 
usually are. Please read them to Mother. 



116 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

I have splendid visions of "the Anomaly," the 
coming winter, but alas, the death of all fair visions 
is the reducing them to practicalit} 7 . The moment I 
take hold, to do, they all fade. 

There is no sum in life's arithmetic, that makes 
such havoc among bright dreams, as this aforesaid 
reduction ; for it is general^, (I may say, always) 
11 reduction descending" — } 7 ou always end in a lower 
denomination than you commenced in. 

These wondrous battles, when victory seems 

awarded before the fighting commences, these stories 
of individual bravery and of noble soldiers, knighted 
on the very field, and with its very name, — (witness 
the "Duke of Magenta 1 ' and his colleagues) — do not 
seem like this matter of fact " nineteenth." 

These brilliant accounts of masterly generalship, 
and strokes of policy, that are as keen as the Turco's 
swords, — all very dazzling; — but there are other 
sides to the picture. 

Yours in love, 

Emma. 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 117 

Dear Nettie — 

I had a dear half tormenting letter from Father. 
******* 

I fear I am not thankful enough for him. But He 
who knows all things, knows how much I love him. 
I wish lie knew it, but somehow I never could tell 
him, but I prefer to work it out for him, some day 
(this love of mine), and he shall know it then. 

Your reference to death, led me to think of this 
toiling and struggling, and always falling short of the 
mark, this secret yearning and grasping after some- 
thing higher, — this soul thirsting, which is never 
content, that makes life at heart so unhappy, I some- 
times think I would prefer death, but then, — the 
hereafter. ***** 

******* 

Emma. 

(2b the Editor of the S. S. Times.) 

Brooklyn, July 30th, 1860. 

Dear Sir — 

In reading your paper of Saturday, July 28th, I 
was very much interested in an account among the 



118 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

missionary correspondence, of a young lady, only 
fifteen, who was superintendent of a S- School of thirty 
scholars, in Wisconsin. — The statement was, that she 
was very poor, had travelled fourteen miles for help, 
and was unable to get it. 

Would you be so kind, if it is in your power, to 
procure her exact address,, and also tell me what 
would be the safest way to send her books or money. 
By doing this you will oblige me greatly and enable 
some sympathizing friends to help a needy disciple 
of our blessed Saviour. 

Enclosed is a stamp for your reply. Please ad- 
dress E. Whiting. 

South Brooklyn, Oct. 2nd, 1860. 

Kev. Mead Holmes — 

Dear Sir — Your letter, kindly answering my 
inquiries, came to me about two weeks ago. Had it 
not been for some necessary detentions, it should have 
been answered more speedily. 

I was rejoiced to hear that the wants of the young 
lady had been supplied. Her case had awakened my 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 119 

deepest sympathy — Her youth, her self-sacrificing 
work for Christ under such disadvantages, had 
appealed strongly to my heart, for I was myself a 
Sunday School teacher, and but newly born into 
Christ's kingdom. I thought I might, with the help 
of kind friends, to whom I had spoken about her, be 
able to do something for her. The thought gave me 
no rest, till it shaped itself to deed. I wrote to the 
Editor of the Sunday School Times, and received in 
reply your letter, containing that item, and the 
promise of a letter from you of further information. 
That letter lies before me now. I thank God that he 
has raised up help for Miss W. in her time of need. 
She has my earnest prayers for herself and her 
school. 

But your letter opened up other ways in which I 
might be useful. Your description of the destitution, 
of the appeals of the people, of the opportunities to 
do, and the means wanting, moved me strongly. I 
asked myself what I could do for you. I am not rich 
in this world's good?, and the question with me is, 
"What can I dof not What can I give? so your letter 



120 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

sent me out on my first collecting expedition, a work 
entirely new to me. ■*#*■**■»■*■** 

This sum, though small, comes from hearts warmly 
interested in the cause. One lady, who had been 
spending the summer in Wisconsin, fully corroborates 
your statement of the religious destitution of the peo- 
ple, and handing me her donation she told me with 
tears in her eyes — that she thanked God for the 
opportunity to give to this cause. Will you please to 
use this sum, just as it seems best to you, for you best 
know the immediate wants of your field. 

I assure my friend that my interest in the Sabbath 
School cause is not small. I connect the future salva- 
tion of our country with the salvation of the children, 
and the children of the West are no small portion of 
the great Sabbath School Army. 

Yours must be, with all its difficulties, a work of 
interest, — May God reward you, and he surely will, 
with success. 

I shall be happy to hear from you in return. 
I remain, Sir, yours most truly, 

E. Whiting. 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 121 

South Brooklyn. 

Dear Nettie — 

I put my trust in him — I thank him it is not always 
here — the hereafter is my consolation — the impossible 
here, shall be the possible there. Pray for me, dar- 
ling, that I may keep close to Christ in this hour 
of trial. 

Yours ever, 
Emma. 
My dear love to all the rest. 

Wednesday, Nov. 25th, 1860. 

Dear Nettie — 

Our Thanksgiving was sad, but to me, it was the 
truest thanksgiving I have ever had, and I think I 
may say the same for us all. 

It was indeed an anxious one for our country — 

What do you think of dividing this splendid Union 

— ah me, the amount of talking I hear about it, — such 

discussions, such differences of opinion, so many plans 

and theories. If every man's sincere belief be truth 

to him, then truth must have as many sides as 

6 



122 FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 

give me a comparison. But really it is a sad thing — 
Much as I hate slavery I do love the Union, and 
these times make my heart ache. Yet God is in it all 
— but men talk as though He were not. Chance is 
the God of the majority. I think he has his purpose 
concerning slavery, and if he strike its death-blow 
amid confusion, and suffering (it may be), shall we 
not wait and be patient ? 

Emma. 



Brooklyn, May 18th, 1860. 

Dear Nettie — 

My heart swelled when I read of the sweet comfort 
you found in that hymn, which I think is but that 
glorious promise, " For our light affliction which is 
but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceed- 
ing and eternal weight of glory." In the original 
(they say) it reads "a glory exceeding all excess." 
Is not this a golden promise? No wonder our 
heaviest afflictions seem but light, and all these long 
years that we count so nearly by days, dwindle into 
"but for a moment." Cannot we afford to wait with 



FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE. 123 

faith and patience? I have felt all this lately, for 
after I wrote you, my dear Mother was much worse, 
and my heart began to tremble at the thought of an- 
other great sorrow — yet God was so good to us. How 
can I thank Him enough. Perhaps you will think we 
were too easily frightened, yet since dear Laura went 
home, I have learned the uncertainty of all things here 
most thoroughly. I used to think it could not be, and 
so dismissed my fears. JSTow I know that whether I 
will or no, if God wills, it will be. My heart trembled 
with apprehension, not with distrust. Dear Mother is 
up again, yet I have learned a sick room lesson. 

Emma. 



VL 



STIRS OF POETRY 



VI. 

STIRS OF POETRY, 



Religion commends itself, as a power and beauty 
of life, in proportion to the extent of the life which 
it clothes with power, and covers with beauty. 

It may, indeed, be exemplified as the sway of an 
intellect insensible to other themes which attract us, 
the charm of a heart impervious to other emotions by 
which we are penetrated. 

Yet the best preacher of the Gospel for us, is one 
who can walk by our side, in our views of nature, of 
character, our sentiments of memory and hope. And 
the pervading prayer of this book is, that Emma's 
wayside companionship may win those who enjoy it, 
to accompany her homeward, — heavenward. 

They will at least cease to suppose that progress 



128 STIRS OF POETRY. 

towards Heaven is of the nature of a revery, or a 
rhapsody, overlooking the sweet scenes and practical 
observations, that surround its transition. 

When a musician would charge your heart with 
some pathos or sublime harmony, he first runs his 
hand over the keys lightly, or engages your ear by 
some vivacious overture. 

In the same way, when we would follow the deep- 
ening melody, the spiritual meaning, of a life that 
articulates some harmony of the Infinite, we may first 
of all appreciate it in lighter snatches, and the 
familiar cadences of our favorite airs, — we will think 
along with it, and so follow its higher thought, and hope. 

It will be observed, that the verses found here 
are not presented, so much as candidates for literary 
favor, as indications of a poetic temperament, and 
illustrations of the same tone of character, which 
appears everywhere, throughout these pages. They 
are necessarily imperfect and fragmentary. "We give 
them, simply as snatches of poesy, with which she en- 
livened her home, like one singing bars or occasional 
notes of a melody, and amid household occupations. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 129 

They will be found to be in perfect keeping with the 
rest of her "utterances, and the spirit of her life. At 
least we may say, that there is not a silly line, nor a 
sickly sentiment, to deface them. There is, also, 
here, the ring of genuine, spontaneous thought 
Poetry it is, if not always in full dress. 

If, in any instance, we have ventured to touch a 
cadence, or adjust a line, it has been rarely, and as 
slightly as when one may touch for a friend who is in 
haste, the glove dropped, or the drooping mantle. 

FRAGMENTS OF " CORIOLANUS." 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

Proud Eome, proud mighty Eome, it stood 

With burnished spire and dome. 
The conqueror melts to softer mood, 

These are the walls of home. 

A mother here has soothed his pain, 

A father's name is dear, 

And memory sends her loving train 

To win affection's tear. 
6* 



130 STIRS OF POETRY. 

These are not thoughts for me, he cried, 
Dashing the tear drops by ; 

Does this become a hero's pride ? 
Is this a warrior's sigh ? 

Then forth there walked his mother fair, 

And by the hand she led 
His darling boy, whose clustering hair 

Curled thick upon his head. 

Alas, she cried, that I should stand 
To see this mournful day. — 

The glory of our ancient land, 
Doth basely pass away. 

I cannot, will not, longer brook, 
This dread disgraceful sight. 

And recreant thou, lift not thy look, 
Upon thy native light. 

How shall I mingle e'er again 
Among the matrons proud ? 

And hear the jeers and scornful words 
Of the unfeeling crowd ? 



STIRS OF POETRY. 131 

And I must speechless stand, when men 

Rehearse the noble name 
Their sons have won, how can I then 

Endure thine odious shame ? 

A mother's curse shall heavy hang 

Upon thy wretched head, 
Wo sister's hand shall soothe the pang, 

Or smoothe thy dying bed. 

The warrior paused, while like a storm 

Conflicting thoughts did roll. 
These long loved lives, — this sacred form, 

Did rend his very soul. 

His private wrongs, stern duty's calls, 

And sweet affection's tear, 
The love of home, these sacred walls, — 

All made the scene more dear. 

Dark raged the conflict then within, 

Without a ray to cheer, 
But all above the noisy din, 

Spake conscience, calm and clear. 



132 STIRS OF POETRY. 

Peace, angry mortal, this its strain, 

Why dwell upon thy wrong ? 

This is the spot that thou should'st gain, 
And make its glory strong. 

This is the spot that thou should'st hold 

Most dear of all the earth. 
These walls are sacred, they enfold 

The city of thy birth. 

And thus at length the voice prevailed, 
Oh ! mother, thou hast won. 

The victory is thine ; but failed, 
The clasp of thine own son. 



And so his heart he ruled amain, 
"With a strong soldier's might. 

He kissed her fondly, once again , 
And then, — was lost to sight. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 133 



"Musings in an Old Street." 

WEITTEN AT THE AGE OP SEVENTEEN. 

While walking slow, not long ago, 

Adown a dark old street, 
I mused, how many passing forms, 

How many stranger feet — 

Had trod these stones, these worn out stones, 

Perchance with careless tread, 
With smiles or tears, with songs or groans, — 

Passed on among the dead. 

Here, childhood's happy ringing feet, 

That scarcely touched the earth, 
So full of careless joy they beat, 

So blithe in eager mirth. 

The clinging grasping tread of those 

Who dared not look above, 
But sought a pitiful repose, 

And loved a sordid love. 



134 STIRS OF POETRY. 

The haughty, desolating, blight 

Of the oppressor's tread, 
That trod on truth, and trampled right, 

And strewed the way with dead. 

The firm and stately pace of life 

That bore its noble part, 
That stood forth bravely in the strife, 

Stepping with steadfast heart. 

The small and paltry walk alone, 
That spent its little breath — 

Of skulking self, and stooping prone 
Crept to ignoble death. 

The halting, timid, footsore tread 

Of Grod's despised poor, 
Who lived half starved on scanty bread, 

Or begged from door to door. 

Packed and oppressed, the wronged mass, 

Jostled and thrust aside, 
To leave full room for wealth to pass-, 

And grinding wheels of pride. 



STIjRS OF POETRY. 135 

The feeble, sad, heart-broken step, — 

Who shall the imprint spell 
Of the lost lives, that angels weep, 

Since from God's face they fell. 

I seemed to see the haggard face, 

To hear the heavy sigh 
Of those, who loathed their crouching paoe, 

And only longed to die. 

While yet I scanned the busy throng 

With eager, wondering look, 
Each passing form, hastening along, 

A deeper semblance took. 

The street became a life-march then — 

The dull and tramping tread, 
That was the time, beat to the strain, 

They measured as they sped. 

That measure was the record traced 

Of what their lives had taught, 
A time-stamp, speedily effaced, 

To be, as they were — naught 



13(3 STIRS OF POETRY. 

The sky, like some gilt lettered scroll, 
Unrolled its truth o'erhead, 

The trackless way before, their goal,— 
The city of the dead. 

The city of the dead appeared 

Before me now to rise. 
Its shadowy domes, grandly upreared, 

Full on the arching skies. 

Stood forth the majesty divine, 
Upon my trembling sight, 

Lustrous afar with God's own sign, 
Through folds of solemn night. 

A stately silence brooded wide 
Over the mystic land, 

Its azure portals stood aside, 
Touched by the master's hand. 

And as they near the city's verge, 

I trace them dimly now, 
The flying shadows quickly merge 

Each passing fading brow. 



STIES OF POETRY, 187 

And while I mused — lo — night fell o'er 

The now deserted street. 
The vision fled, I raised my head, 

And homeward turned my feet. 

Lines suggested by hearing " Christabel." 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN. 

If magic power were given to me, 

The spirits of the dead to see, 

What do you think my choice would be? 

I'd bid the wilful poet telL 
What did befall sweet Christabel. 
Ah ! sweet and gentle Christabel ! 
On whom did hang a mighty spell, — 
Who shall thy varied story tell. 
Strange mj^stic breathings, dark and fell, 
Mingled with fancy's witching spell, 

Imagination's fervid arts, — 
Unite to charm our list'ning hearts. 
Ah ! would that we could only tell 
What did befall sweet Christabel 



138 STIRS OF POETRY. 



The Eed King's Ride. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN". 

INTRODUCTION. 

The East is flushing with awakening day, 

And reddening with Aurora's coming raj, 
O'er distant hill-tops peeps the rising sun, 

And joyous Nature wakes, for night is done. 
The early rays dance lightly on the eaves, 

And glitter in the dew-drops on the leaves. 
The birds astir, pour forth their merry lay, 

And greet with gladsome glee the dawning day, 
All Nature's chorus join the song to raise, 

And loud and clear resounds the hymn of praise, 
While every sheltered cave, and shadowy dell, 

With sweet refrain the ringing echoes swell. 
The mountain side doth catch the mighty strain 

And send it back to mountain side again. 
Singing — awake, oh, sluggard man — join in His 
praise, 

Who bathes the world in his supernal rays. 



STIES OF POETRY. 139 

The Legend. 

Now shrilly soimdetli the bugle call, 

O'er cottage roof, and palace-hall, 

And the Knights that hear the summons loud, 

Flock to the King in a motlej 7 crowd. 

Some in their burnished coats of mail, 

Mounted on palfrej^s fleet and hale, 

Some in their ringing corselets of steel, 

Cased in armor from head to heel ; 

And the bossy shield, and flashing spear, 

Sparkle and dazzle far and near. 

And the snowy crests of their helmets gleam, 

And dance in the lustrous morning beam. 

They come from afar, at that bugle's call, 

They stalk about in the lordly hall. 

They stride though the court, in proud array, 

— For the Eed King rides to hunt, to-day. 
He had sworn last night, at his kingly board, 
On the morrow to summon each knightly lord. 
A solemn oath — by St. George and his sword, 
And now to fulfil this vowed decree, 



140 STIES OF POETRY. 

Forth from the doorway cometh he, 

And towering above the opening crowd, 

He mounts his charger, snorting loud, 

And pawing the ground with impatient fire. — 

Then forth from the throng there steps a friar. 

Wan with watching and penance is he, 

And his garments old and tattered be — 

There full in front of the King he stands, 

And high he holds the cross in his hands. 

"Now, mighty King, dark omens sa} r , 

Death waits for thee, in the woods to-day. 

Last night, strange dreams on my slumbers came, 

And bade me warn thee in the holy name 

Of God — and St. Greorge, that thou hunt not this day. 

Give heed, give heed, great King, I pray, 

Nor reck it an idle word, that I say ; 

For if thou wilt go in thy scornful pride, 

Thou shalt never return from this fated ride." 

Loud laughed the King, and turning with scorn, 

"Is this," he said, " to be tamely borne? 

If a coward monk in his lonely cell, 

Doth dream of ghosts that their warning tell, 



STIRS OF POETRY. 141 

Shall we, for this, from our brave sport stay ? 

Nay by all that is holy, this I say, 

If I ride at all, I will ride to-day." 

Then answered the monk, with kindling eye, 

" Great King, thou goest forth to die. 

Last night the moon shone red as blood, 

And shadowy forms were seen in the wood, 

Of the spectre huntsmen, who only ride, 

When woe and death to the King betide." 

"Ha, ha I" laughed the King, " ha ha," laughed the 

air. 
Was it a demon answered him there ? 
Raising himself in his saddle, quoth he, 
" Our return at night, grim monk, you shall see, 
Laden with spoils of the chase we shall be. 
And now let sound the bugle's call, 
And away to the forest one and all." 
Away, away, to the forest they ride, 
And the trembling deer, in the shades that hide, 
Start from their couch, at the fearful sound, 
And away o'er the dewy grass they bound. 
Thus, all day long, in the forest they ride, 



142 STIRS OF POETRY. 

— The King with his favorite Knight by his side. 

Wearied and worn, at length they come 

To a shady dell, — the quiet home 

Of a gurgling, prattling, laughing brook, 

That winds adown the sheltered nook. 

And here they stretch themselves on the ground, 

While faint and far the bugles sound, 

And fainter and farther the echoes resound. 

They lie and rest, on the cool soft grass, 

And watch the streamlet's ripples pass, 

Over its bosom, smooth as glass. 

Where the pebbles whiten under the wave, 

As pearls lie white in the ocean cave. 

Then forth from the thicket, close pressed by hounds, 

Starts a noble stag, with fearful bounds ; 

Such kingly prize had not been seen, 

In the regal forest, before, I ween, 

With branching horns on his stately head, 

And sides that panted with pride as he sped. 

"Now quick, Sir Walter, — raise thy bow, 

And bid this goodly game lie low. 

Thy swiftest arrow, let it fly 



STIRS OF POETRY. 143 

A prize so rare must not pass by." 

Quickly the proud knight raised his bow, 

The keen twang bade the arrow go, 

Away through the air the arrow flies, 

But it touches not the coveted prize. 

For glancing aside, the wanton dart 

Pierces the King to his royal heart. 

Heavy he falls, without a groan, 

Stiffly he lies, without a moan. 

While the knight stands fixed like rigid stone, 

His eye dilates, and his cheek is pale, 

For awhile his knightly soul doth quail, 

Then shaking away his stupor of fear, 

He springs to his charger, grazing near. 

Away with lightning speed he rides, 

Driving his spurs in his horse's sides. 

Poised in his saddle, and couching his lance, 

Afar he speeds for the coast of France. 

Away, away, till the horse's side 

Is bathed in foam by the maddening ride. 

His flanks are heaving, lie slackens his pace, 

But on the rider urges the race. 



144 STIES OF POETRY. 

Away, away, — he flies like the wind, 

For sure destruction is riding behind, 

And to pause, even now, were it only for breath, 

Would bring on his doomed head speedy death. 

And the Ked King lies in the forest gloom, 
He has met at last his omened doom, 
And the oozing blood clots in his hair, 
His eyes are fixed in a glassy stare. 
And the little brook that dimpled before, 
Is troubled and stained with drops of gore, 
On the darkening ground lies his royal head, 
Ah, who heeds now, that the King is dead — ? 



The wind is sobbing over the trees, 
That wave and nod in the searching breeze, 
And the quivering leaves to the setting sun, 
Repeat in low murmurs, — God's will be done. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 145 

Spirits. 

A Fancy. 

Spirits of darkness, gloom and night, — 
Spirits of dread, and fearful might, — 
Spirits of dark unholy power, — 
Spirits that tempt us every hour, — 
Spirits like demons, great and strong, 
That lure us on to sin and wrong, — 
Spirits that chill us with their breath, 
Spirits of madness, and of death. 

Spirits of Heaven, chaste and bright, — 
That break the gloom with their holy light — 
Spirits that love, and watch, and pray, — 
Spirits that weep whene'er we stray, — 
Spirits that dwell in joy above,— 
Spirits of peace, and hope, and love, — 
Spirits that chase the cares of night, — 
And fold around us their wings of light, — 
Spirits of earth and spirits of air, — 

Around and above us, everywhere. 

7 



146 STIES OF POETRY 

Shadows. 

AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN. 

Night flingeth its dusky mantle 

Over the city dim, 
Crowned with its brilliance gentle, 

With its diamond diadem. 

Night with its sombre sadness 
Shroudeth the things of day. 

Speeding its misty shadows 
In weird and wayward play. 

Shapeth its phantom fancies, 

That symbolize sorrow and death, 

In their pale and wavering glances, 
And their chilling desolate breath. 

That emblem the heart's desolation, 
When darkness hath entered there, 

And dashed from its fond elevation, 
Some idol, so stately and fair. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 147 

Some name that affection was holding, 

That we cherished, and worshipped too long, 

Till our life with its tendrils enfolding, 
Had clasped it, as if it were strong. 

To an idol our lives we had given, 
And lettered its name in our prayer, 

And held it above us in Heaven, 
"When God alone should be there. 

But He that is jealous and holy, 

Claimeth our love for his own ; 
In the shadow He bids us be lowly, — • 

The idol is dashed from its throne. 

We bow our heads to the sentence, 

And shut our eyes to the light. 
They close, in the dusk of repentance, 

They open, on promise-starred night. 

And thenceforth, the night, in its waning, 

Its tranquil, sacred grace, 
Stilleth our petulant plaining, 

Charmeth our hearts to peace. 



148 STIRS OF POETRY. 

Sunset. 

Oh ! a glorious King is our Lord the Sun, 
And when his daily race is run, 

At his behest, 

In the distant West, 
The spirits of Evening built him a throne. 

Two massive clouds together they rolled, 
And draped them with purple in heavy fold, 

And o'er the whole they threw, 

A mantle of brilliant hue, 
Of gorgeous crimson, studded with gold. 

And they hung in the azure sky above, 
The evening star, — the star of love, — 

While the sea below, 

In its heaving flow, 
Mirrored in blue, the scene above. 

The sprites of the mist before it they drew 
A gauzy veil of a purplish hue, 



STIRS OF POETRY. 149 

A veil of enchantment 'twas, I ween, 

Making the fairy-like splendid scene, 

Glimmer with gleams of the land unseen. 

And the merry imp and the sportive fay, 
Weaving their fantasies so gay, 

Called it a throne, 

For our Lord King Sun ; 
But " Sunset" they call it in mortal tone. 



A Song for the New Year. 

(her last new year on earth.) 

A SONG for the new-born year, 
Fresh from the hand of God, 

As pure as the snowdrop's heart, 
That springs from the winter's sod. 

A song for this golden pause, 

In exquisite mercy sent, 
To strengthen resolves in the soul, 

And freshen its life intent 



150 STIRS OF POETRY. 

As the bold Balboa pushed, 

With his sweating stalwart men, 

Though the tangled forest growth, 
Of the thickly wooded glen — 

Up the toilsome mountain side, 
To the topmost dizzy height, 

Till the waves of the untamed sea 
Burst on their dazzled sight. — 

So we, panting human souls, 
Push through the forest of life, 

Through the mazes of true and false, 
That have tangled together in strife, 

Till we pause on this ledge of time, 
To gather our strength anew, 

And the wide expanse of Life's sea 
Opens upon our view. 

But veiled with a purple mist, 
To guard against surprise, 

The shade of a loving father's hand, 
O'er our future seeking eyes. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 151 

And our helpless souls at that glance, 

Tremble within us there, 
And the song that we fain would sing 

Has hushed itself to a prayer — 

That our eager watch for the close 

The future before our land, 
May nestle to sweet repose, 

In a loving Father's hand. 

That our hearts may trust Him all, 

In a helpless faith sublime, 
For only then do we heed his call, 

And triumph over Time. 



152 STIRS OF POETRY. 



Death. 



These stanzas were written before she had seen 
any one die — and seem to have been a presenti- 
ment of Laura's death, which occurred shortly 
afterwards. 

Tkead lightly, softly, see while we were watching, 
Through the door came Death silently, 

And winding cold his arms about our darling, 
Whispered, — God hath need of thee. 

Anxious we watched her, counting time by heart- 
beats 

Throughout that longest day, 
Fearing lest in some pause of watchfulness, 

Like mist before the sunshine, she would fade away. 

We watched her little bosom heaving slowly 

With long-drawn breath, 
Her golden hair about her temples clinging — 

Moistened with death. 



STIRS OF POETRY. 153 

And when the wistful eyes beneath those fringed lids 

Drooped more, and more, 
The little face grew darker, darker — then we knew, 

Death's shadow lay upon the floor. 

The very air was strangely still and holy, 

The swallows twittering in the eaves 
Stopped silent ; the trembling aspen, for a moment 

Hushed its quivering leaves. 

The sun-shine drew long lines of burnished light 

Across the dusky window pane, 
That seemed like golden ladders back and forth from 
Heaven, 

O'er which the trooping angels went and came. 

There was no need of weeping ; we knew that in that 
Death-pause, 

While we held our breath, 
Our God himself had shadowed forth his presence, 

And this was Death. 

7* 



154 STIRS OF POETRY. 

What the Snow suggested to me. 

(She left it unfinished and will return to finish it.) 

As snow that falleth in the quiet night, 
And lyetb on the ground so soft and white, 
Doth cover with its pure and gentle dress 
The scars and seams of earth's unsightliness, 
Filling the gaps with never tiring grace, 
And laying level Earth's uneven face, 
That when the Sun doth drive away the night, 
Bringing the searching j ndgment of its light, 
Doth its good work with modest grace confess, 
And sparkle with a thousand gems of loveliness, — 
— So deeds of love, done quietly in this world's night, 
Striving to bridge the gaps of wrong and right, 
And in Christ's name, to throw His robe of grace 
O'er the rough scars of earth's unequal face, 
Shall, when the Sun of Kighteousness doth rise, 
Bringing His glory through the opening skies — 



TIL 
LIFE RESUMED. 



VII. 
[LIFE RESUMED 



There are characters that reassure us of immor- 
tality. They are living epistles of Eternity. Death 
does not threaten to put a period to their activities, or 
their affinities. Neither does it appear to interrupt 
their course, or embarrass their culture. They seem 
to be pressing on, deliberately, but with alacrity ; to 
belong to the world above us, as well as to the world 
about us. 

Emma's career was of this type. It substantiates a 
likelihood of ultimate perfection, not by its pious 
hope exclusively, but by a certain directness and 
symmetry in all its pursuits, as these tend onward 
and upward. The impression is not so much of what 
is frequently styled the future existence, as of an 



158 LIFE RESUMED. 

existence already begun, which promises future 
expansion. 

A charm invests such biographies. They resemble 
those brilliant days which kindle our conceptions of a 
brighter world. — It may be difficult to determine the 
particular spell that suffuses the atmosphere at such a 
time. But we experience an unwonted delight. 
Our lungs exult, and our eyes sparkle. Our nerves 
are at once tranquil and quick. The sky is a purer 
sapphire, than on ordinary days which are called 
pleasant. Meadows wear a richer green. The land- 
scape sleeps, not wearily, as if exhausted, but peace- 
fully, like the light slumber of a healthy child. We 
notice the hush on all the scene, and remark with 
delight, what a loveliness of earth is here. We 
notice the unusual brilliance and electric exaltation, 
and observe, — what a glory is here beyond earth. 
Our thoughts are subdued, and still sublime. Such 
days always impress the mind with the conviction, 
that there is somewhere a perfect place, a visible 
scene, called Heaven. In the same way, there are 
some lives that wear an especial serenity, which at 



LIFE RESUMED. 159 

once humbles and exhilarates the beholder. They 
blend strength and sweetness of character, in unwon- 
ted proportion. Such lives re-enforce in us the idea 
of Heaven, as a congenial companionship, — and pledge 
to us the recognitions and reunions there to be 
enjoyed. It was thus in the example before us. 
Emma's spirituality did not limit itself to sacred 
forms and religious exercises, technically so styled. 
It hallowed her life, framing that to an unusual exer- 
cise, at once religious and intellectual. Of the seasons 
which she secured for devotional retirement, she 
makes but slight distinctive mention. And it is 
evident that when she entered into her closet, she 
obeyed her Saviour, by "shutting the door." There 
was ever a sacred quiet on the countenance with 
which she came forth. Not an unnatural unearthli- 
ness, was it, but a ready heavenly-mindedness, — as 
of a sunbeam not fearing to lose itself on rock or 
roadside, — as of a sanctity which could put on its 
robes in delicate seclusion, to walk forth in the open 
air of service, — as of a religion, that esteemed earthly 
life to be but the grounds about the house of God, in 



160 LIFE RESUMED. 

which to find room and range of usefulness. And 
when she passed away, it was evident to us, and we 
think must be evident to the reader, that her course 
was not ended, but only interrupted, — and that such 
an interruption was a pause, but not a period. 

From a life thus swift in its movement, but thus 
genial in its glance, touching us at so many points 
of sympathy, but passing out of our reach at such a 
pace of progress, — we learn a lesson as to the nature 
of human transition. We perceive first of all, that 
the identity of the person, — or that peculiar and inde- 
pendent stamp of existence, by which we tell person 
ality apart, and admire, or love it, — so far from being 
impaired by intellectual and spiritual progress, is 
reaffirmed and reinvigorated. The more a soul 
grows, the more individual it becomes. It separates 
itself more and more, from the mere circumstantial 
aspects through which it passes, and of which it 
makes use, shaping forth a distinct personality, an 
independent existence. We call it a marked charac- 
ter, a distinguished person, a striking life. We say 
of it, as we often say of a striking likeness, that we 



LIFE RESUMED. 161 

should know it anywhere. We mean by this, that — 
as, in the case of the portrait, we should recognize 
the resemblance, without being told who it was, and 
however unexpectedly we might come upon it, — so 
in the case of the life, there is something that can 
keep its own place in our remembrance, and retain its 
own power over our hearts. 

There is something singular in the fact, notwith- 
standing. For the very point in which a life is strik- 
ing is that where it touches some kindred chord in 
our own, or where it has most in common with man- 
kind. If you analyse the secret of your delight in a 
rare character, whether it belong to open fame, or 
secluded fidelity, splendid manhood, or sweet child- 
hood, missionary martyrdom, or domestic modesty, — 
you will find the charm always to consist, in some 
trait, or conduct, befitting us all, and by no means in 
anything extravagant, or eccentric. You will dis- 
cover that what you admire in such a life, is not that 
in which it dazzles your comprehension, but that 
which enchants you with its simplicity; just that, in 
fact, which makes you admire a noble painter, — 



162 LIFE RESUMED. 

because he is so true to nature, so lifelike, even in 
bis trees, and Lis rocks, and his pictures of common 
life. It is a wonder, therefore, that we do not find 
those who make the greatest advances in all that is 
lovely and of good report, becoming so like each 
other, as to lose their idiosyncrasies, and smooth e away 
their peculiarities, and in a measure forfeit their very 
identity. As they grow wise and good, they might 
be expected to grow more like one another. We do 
think sometimes, in a superficial way, that every 
Christian must be like every other Christian. And if 
we ever think of an angel, it is too often of a pattern 
of character, and an aspect of form, of which every 
other angel is a facsimile, so that to see one would 
be to see them all. 

But we shall take an entirely contrary view when 
we get the true idea of spiritual progress as a transi- 
tion. It will be the lesson of a memoir, and the 
power of a memorable life, to let us perceive how the 
being retains its peculiar personality throughout its 
advance. The bearing of this fact upon our future 
condition and our future relations, we shall see pre- 



LIFE RESUMED. 163 

sently. Bat we must first of all make sure of it as it 
appears in that partial glimpse of a spiritual career, 
which we can get while it is passing directly in front 
of us, as you tell a bird on the wing before it disap- 
pears, a mere melting fleck upon the melting azure. 
Now we say that within this world there is a true 
transition of the human soul, in which, while its whole 
character is transformed and progressive, its indivi- 
duality is nowhere obscured. We may go farther, and 
insist that in such intellectual and spiritual changes 
its peculiar aspect is preserved, and brought into the 
fullest relief, the most vivid discrimi nation. In 
the case of the human being, as in the case of a tree, 
symmetrical culture only serves to bring out the 
particular quality which belongs to it ! The untrained 
sapling, the mere crude graft may be difficult to tell 
apart. But a broad oak soon tells its name. An 
apple-tree, in bloom in an orchard blossoming with 
all manner of fruit trees, looks more like an apple- 
tree than ever. The graceful waving of the willow 
is more delicate and more distinct the more luxurious 
be its growth, although the causes which have acce- 



164 LIFE RESUMED. 

le.rated it, and the laws of its prime, are just those 
which impel other trees. In the same way, the richer 
the development of a character in general principles 
and to general sympathies, the more marked, the more 
single its impression is rendered, the safer its identity. 
We would know it again anywhere for ever. This 
law is illustrated in the brevity, the simplicity of a life 
like that before us. It grew rapidly. But it did not 
outgrow its early look. It lost nothing and left 
nothing whatever behind it, in its track, that rendered 
its dawn so fragrant, its promise so bright. As far as 
we could follow it, we found it retentive of the same 
tint, the same flavor which made its beauty at the first, 
Education strengthened and furnished it. Indeed, 
the power of its education was in its own reflec- 
tion rather than in any external tutoring, and there- 
fore quickened the very harmony of talent and taste 
which had given it direction. Religion, Regeneration, 
were not its obliteration. They were its salvation. 

They took its imprint into the Divine life, into the 
higher thought and service there, — as a likeness that 
has been lightly sketched on perishable paper, may 



LIFE RESUMED. 165 

be engraved on some imperishable fabric. It became 
thus, at the same time, the more enduring and the 
more radiant. 

And, — in the second place, — this glimpse of a 
peculiar life, placid, germane, but intense, — deepening 
its delicate distinctness in the transition through this 
world, — mast keep the same law, as it passes on, 
within the precincts of another. The reflection there- 
fore comes home to our hearts afresh, and with much 
tenderness, — that we are apt to misunderstand that 
interruption of the spirit's course, which occurs when 
it puts off this form. — Even believers in revelation 
look, too often, for an abstract immortality, which, 
when it shall come upon them, shall supersede all 
their previous activity as so much waste, and discard 
all their preliminary studies, as so many confusions. 
Some true Christians who are fond of looking up into 
Heaven, nevertheless put Heaven too far away from 
earth, and take an impracticable view of the change, 
— thinking negatively alone, of the many points in 
which life there will contrast with life here, and not 
at all positively of the many more points in which 



166 LIFE RESUMED. 

the former will revive, replenish, and realize the 
latter. While many an ardent mind is feeble and 
superficial enough to imagine, that spirituality is a 
synonyme for unreality, and that this world can be 
enjoyed by itself, in a detached and fragmentary 
assumption of it, such as worldliness attempts. Such 
errors arise from regarding what we call death as 
a total revolution in the laws of being, and the tran- 
sition of existence, — as its termination. It is well to 
be reminded that this is not a correct apprehension. 
The interruption is not a disruption, still less is it a 
dissolution. We exaggerate it when we call it a 
death. An interrupted life may seem to be fractured, 
in our inability to trace the connexion between one 
sphere and another, just as a staff looks to your eye 
broken or bent, when standing midway in the water. 
But there is no such fracture. It is only a refraction 
in our own vision. Or just as a variation in music 
sounds to the uninitiated like an abrupt end of the 
aria, a failure of it, while the cultured ear finds the 
drift of the melody all the more emphatic and all the 
more impressive in the variation, life transferred and 



LIFE RES TIMED. 167 

transplanted, may to the ken of sense appear to be 
life broken off, and even amid some hope of immor- 
tality, some notion of a future state, still so intangible, 
so unlike, as to fatigue, perplex, and deject the 
thought. It is a staff refracted beneath the surface. 
It is a melody running on in another key. But the 
continuity of culture, the identity of character, 
through distinct stages of progress, traceable as it is 
throughout this sphere, explains our advance upon 
the spheres which lie further on. Transition is the 
legitimate style of human existence — life-time is 
well termed a career. It is a very road, a very path- 
way. Now a road, a path, may appear to cease, where 
your eye fails to follow it ; you look up and down a 
street in either direction, and beyond a certain point 
discern nothing but void making up against the 
inaccessible sky. You are not, however, in danger of 
supposing that the road has gone out, or that it 
terminates abruptly just where your vision fails to 
follow it. — And the reason is found in the idea of 
the road itself, as it is a transition and a connexion. 
It was made and meant to pass on. It passes by you 



168 LIFE RESUMED. 

here. It must still pass somewhere else. And 
wherever it proceeds, it connects its proximate stages 
with each other, and thus it carries them all forward, 
connecting and completing them in its ultimate 
destination. There is something the very counterpart 
of this in the progress of a human spirit which we 
call life. The fact that man is capable of education, 
is the proof that man is capable of immortality. 
This fact is the foundation of the universal belief in 
the further and the future. We use the word educa- 
tion, of course, not in its narrower and artificial sense, 
but in its broadest significance. — Life is transition. 
Transition is tendency. And this tendency renders 
us so certain that the spirit's career will continue 
when it shall have passed out of our sight, that, so 
far from being astonished at the announcement of a 
higher and a nobler world, we should be confounded 
if no such announcement were made. 

But this reasoning will take us much further. This 
principle goes far to establish the permanence of per- 
sonal attachments, the resumption, in the life to come, 
of every pure and spiritual sympathy. It settles the 



LIFE RESUMED. 169 

question which perplexes some hearts in regard to 
future recognition. It stills the sigh of bereaved affec- 
tion. "0, say, do they love us yet?" The answer 
is logical and decided. The transition that makes 
towards Heaven may proceed through degrees of 
Heavenly attainment unknown to us now. But the 
same peculiarity, which it carries forward through 
the different periods and changing phases of this life, 
connecting them all in harmony, it will convey safely 
forward into the next, uniting that also with this. 
And thus we are assured that we shall know each 
other there again, and love each other then, as before, 
because the individuality of our being, so far from 
being diminished, has been confirmed in each one 
of us by every real advance we have ever made in 
this world, and will be more perfectly established in 
the fulness and force of the life everlasting. 

Emma Whiting appears here simply as an illustra- 
tion of this magnificent truth. Her name has not 
been thrust upon the reader for an idle entertainment,, 
but employed to exemplify this harmony between the 

two spheres of culture, which, however far apart in 

8 



170 LIFE RESUMED. 

degree, are akin in the spirit that sways them, and 
the laws they obey. Eapid as was her intellectual 
course, and intense the spiritual refinement through 
which her sensitive nature was passing, her character- 
istic traits were not thereby obscured, but rendered 
steadfast and lustrous. They are to be recognised in 
her childhood, and in her brief womanhood. — Visible 
as they lay dormant in the doubt and the dark of the 
natural will, they became transparent in the glow of 
a will regenerate, and a service exalted. 

Perspicuous, throughout her transitory career, in 
every step of her motion, in every stroke of her pen, 
they become conspicuous, as she passes out of sight, 
and enters the limitless ranges. Like diamonds, they 
twinkled, in the grace of the Divine countenance. 
Like diamonds, they flash, in the glory of the Divine 
throne. The loving hearts, therefore, that cling to 
her name, need not cling to an earthly urn of her 
memory. They know that she loves them as clearly 
as ever, and that they will find her, in her exchange 
of condition, unchanged to them, exhibiting a, life 
transformed, which is nevertheless, a life resumed. 



LIFE RESUMED. 171 

Such an assurance may cheer us all, on behalf of 
the blessed lives that are hid with Christ in God. 
They will never tarnish nor fade in that hiding. 
Such an assurance we may each leave behind us, to 
those who love us, if they and we share together the 
redemption which is in Christ Jesus. They need not 
forget us, nor fail us, for we shall never forget nor 
fail them. If here, among men, we have loved each 
other well, we shall love each other the better, there, 
before God. 

There is therefore no positive loss, no actual part- 
ing, between immortal friends, even in their present 
affections and spiritual relations. It is not a question 
whether we shall know each other at the last, and 
whether we shall meet again. It is a fact that our 
hearts are never severed — that we love on, and love 
ever. 

This simple reasoning is endorsed by Eevelation. 
The Gospel of Christ has revealed a harmony between 
two worlds, not merely by teaching us the bare fact 
that there is an hereafter of blessedness. Human 
nature always had hoped some such thing. But, by 



172 LIFE RESUMED. 

showing us that there is no real break, no chasm, 
between the two spheres. This is exhibited in 
Christ's own transition from death to life, — his pass- 
ing between the two, his going np and down upon 
the stairs, his coming in and out of the doors, — 
remaining still the same, in his personal tastes, sj^mpa- 
thies, and affections. His followers, as they go from 
us, often tell the same story and show the same con- 
stancy. But especially, when their course is as brief as 
it is bright, and when all their instincts, vigorous and 
clear in the sacred uses of time, move harmoniously 
onward, through time, into Eternity. It is then, as 
when a river's flow glides towards the ocean, and you 
are satisfied that there will be found by the ocean 
also, shores and banks, growths, landscapes and homes, 
however different from these by the quiet river's brink. 
So do such lives as this which we have observed, 
move on through time, satisfying us, that however 
exalted and enlarged when they strike the bound- 
less eternity, they shall be just as human, and stu- 
dious, just as tender, and true, evermore, in all that 
had rendered their first stages noble, or worthy. 



LIFE RESUMED. 173 

The interruption cannot break the continuity. It 
cannot disturb the identity. The transition is steady. 
Its argument of life increases in volume. 

It is admitted that a sadness will always attend the 
interruption of life. Pensively you look upon the 
spring verdure becoming tawny in the summer heats, 
and notice the flowers, that could bloom in the balmy 
freshness, curling away and drooping from the stern 
rays ; the rills and rivulets that could rejoice in the 
softer temperature, shrunken and silenced by the 
touches of the fierce blaze ; birds, that sang in the light 
mornings, speechless in the sultry noontide. Plain- 
tively you stand on a hill slope, and read the 
wreathing mists of autumn, and the parting pictures 
of the changing leaves, which tell you how bright the 
summer was, even although they tell you also, how 
sure and swift its return shall be. There is a pathos 
in all this. But there is a promise in it all, as well. 

And so the Christian life that is interrupted, has, 
we confess, its sad scenes of apparent fading and 
parting. But its trials are its tokens of renewal and 
return. Interrupted life proves to be life preserved. 



174 LIFE RESUMED. 

There may be something painful in the prospect of 
leaving the earth, by an interruption of this vitality, 
even to one who goes safely to the rest that remaineth. 
A similar interruption occurs, when an active child is 
sent to slumber in the early hours of evening. To 
lay aside its books, its pastime, to shut up its curiosity, 
and break off its companionships, to lie down on its 
couch, and be disturbed, sometimes, by fears of the 
dark, by momentary loneliness or discomfort, is often 
a serious trial to childhood. Many a simple child 
takes leave of the world thus at nightfall, with a sob, 
and scarcely entertains the thought of the morrow for 
a consolation. But the activity interrupted is the 
activity refreshed. So the promise speaks of God's 
children sent soon to their sleep in Jesus. "They 
shall rest in their beds."" 

" Calm be thy rest. 
Soft as the slumber of a saint forgiven, 
And mild, as opening gleam of promised Heaven." 

If one linger at your side, whom you love much as 
a companion, but who is tired and faint, and you 



LIFE RESUMED. 175 

urge him, exhausted as he is, to remain and talk with 
yon, it will be but selfish cordiality. And such a 
selfishness may be ours when fondest love says to one 
who might ascend, — Remain with us. — Even Christ's 
disciples loved him too much after this fashion, little 
mindful of the glory awaiting Him, but murmuring — ■ 
Abide with us. It is the same spirit that strives to 
detain those who advance faster than ourselves, and 
pass us on the way, and would hold them back, — did 
not the Divine love, and power alike, insist that we 
shall let them go. But if it be gain to them that 
they precede us, it is gain to us, that we may have 
them to hasten us. 

There is one further conclusion in regard to inter- 
rupted life, which relates to its employment and use- 
fulness. We entertain a superstitious notion when we 
complain, as we often do, of fractured usefulness, as 
if God shattered a work, every time he takes away a 
workman. 

The work thus suspended is by no means a work 
deserted. It is a work facilitated, advanced. They 
consign to others, in their transition, what they had 



176 LIFE RESUMED. 

prepared for others in their progress. Not less, but 
larger, is their work. Not faint, but fuller, is their 
pleasure in it. And when Jesus comes in his king- 
dom, he will be admired in all his saints, and glorified 
in all them that believe. — Not one of them will there 
be, who lingered too long, — not one who passed away 
too soon, or too suddenly. They who appeared to 
possess no power, and to achieve no results, they who 
seemed to be cut off in the midst of promise or of 
usefulness, shall assemble in the consummation, and 
beholding the splendors of his finished purpose, 
share the welcome — Well done good and faithful 
servant, — in mutual admiration and reciprocal de- 
light. 

Never say, therefore, that a Christian life is cut off: 
never say, — it is sad, — so young. It is not cut off, it 
is transplanted : It is not sad, it is beautiful — so young. 
The flocks of infants, that have fluttered over this 
world, flying through these domestic groves, in our 
sight, but out of our reach, like rare, shy birds, what 
did they here, what service could they render ? The 
answer is, that they have been more employed to win 



LIFE RESUMED. 177 

the rapt gaze of fond fathers and tender mothers to 

the skies, thej have taught households and homes, 

more definitely, the way to Heaven, than all the 

march of other ministries and means. But they 

flew over, they flew by, they flew high, over and by, 

because they were not meant to breathe these murky 

clouds, this sin-smoked atmosphere, because they 

were permitted to make for a sunnier clime. Many 

a head lies in the dust upon the battle ridge of earthly 

endeavor and earthly encounter, many a stalwart 

chest is flung upon the sward, suddenly, and as we 

say prematurely, because the Almighty meant it to 

leave a certain stage of its work abruptly marked, for 

others, to vanish in a flash of energy, and so 

strengthen others by a more vivid remembrance. 

Say not that it was untimely. It was just in time. 

Thus we have seen the subject of this memoir alive 

in readiness for service. Thus we saw her soon 

robed in readiness for rest. She was ready to endure 

the cross. — She was ready to receive the crown. — She 

might have struggled slowly on like the rest of us, 

and triumphed at the last. But the decree of Christ 

8* 



178 LIFE RESUMED. 

came early for her promotion. I will that this one be 
with me, where I am, as one of the early triumphs 
and the early songsters of redemption. Come up 
hither, said the voice, suddenly. 

Go thy way, Bright One, for thou shalt rest and 
stand in thy lot at the end of the days. Eternity, 
the theme of the child's first composition at school, 
has become the fruition of maturity. 

The sisterly devotion, has grown up to be a 
guardian angelhood. — The missionary temper has 
become a ministering spirit. 

The patriotic ardor, has sought and found another 
country, even an Heavenly. 

The historic study, gazes in supernal and prophetic 
vision. 

The flapping wing of poesy, floats, tireless now, in 
perfect repose, towards the zenith of the Boundless. 

Alike the musical reasoning, and the musical rap- 
ture, are at home among the tones of seraphs, and 
the harps of GrocL 



LIFE RESUMED. 179 

The consecrated ramble, — that mused by the river- 
side and found there its Holy of Holies, — finds a spot 
sweeter still, on the banks of the Eiver of the water 
of Life, — clear as crystal, and joins in the strain — 
Holy Holy Holy Lord God of Hosts. 

The transition of Time, enters upon the translation 
of Eternity. 



THE END. 



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